


I'd Still Follow You Down

by reallooney



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Heavy Angst, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Slow Burn, Vomiting, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:47:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 44,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27488311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reallooney/pseuds/reallooney
Summary: When illness, injury, and argument tear Geralt and Jaskier apart, will fate, destiny, and a winter at Kaer Morhen be enough to bring them back together? Or will an unfortunate encounter with a venomous beast mark the end of the famous friendship between the White Wolf and the Bard?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 331
Kudos: 441





	1. Part One: The Arachasae

Geralt was no stranger to toxins. His carefully concocted Witcher potions were nothing more than poisons. They were toxic to humans, and to him too if he took too much, but in careful doses they were what gave him such a strong advantage when fighting monsters. He spent so much time brewing and drinking poison, he almost forgot how dangerous what he was doing could be. So in the end things were bound to go wrong. It was almost poetic that the thing which helped keep him alive would be what got him in the end. 

Venomous Arachasae. It was by no means Geralt’s favorite creature, but he hadn’t anticipated much trouble. That’s not to say he didn’t prepare. He had taken a dose of Golden Oriole and he had enough crossbow bolts to engage with it until it was weakened enough to approach. He’d done everything right up until this point, so then why were things going sideways so quickly?

It had looked like the beast was on death’s door when Geralt ran out of crossbow bolts. He’d been excessively careful to avoid the puddles of venomous ooze as he approached it to deliver the death blow with his silver sword, but as soon as he was in striking distance the beast seemed to get a second wind. Geralt moved instinctually to jump out of the way, but the amount of deadly toxins surrounding him gave him pause. This pause gave the beast just enough time to stab him in the leg with one of its razor sharp pincers. It got him just above his right knee, cutting through fabric, skin, and muscle with ease, burying itself several inches deep in his thigh. 

The pain was blinding, bringing him to his knees as the beast pulled his pincer free and got ready for another strike. Geralt could already feel the venom spreading. He had seconds before his bloodstream would carry it to his heart and lungs. The dose of Golden Oriole he’d taken was the only thing fending off death now, but it wouldn’t hold up against a shot of venom this potent injected straight into his muscle. The second dose was up on the embankment where he’d left Jaskier, far enough to keep him safe from the toxic fumes, but close enough to watch. Hopefully close enough that Geralt might get to him before he collapsed. Already black spots danced in his line of vision though, the poison quickly making itself known in his body. He was convinced that if he wasn’t already on his knees, his legs would have given out under him by now. He needed to act fast. 

Mustering up the last of his strength, he readied his sword just in time to block the beast’s second blow. Using the momentum from this strike, he slashed, cutting the beast’s head off before it could dispense any more venom. And just in time too. His vision was going dark now, from the pain, or the venom he didn’t know, but either way he knew that he had mere seconds of consciousness left. His body went limp, gravity pulling him to the ground. The last thing he saw before blacking out was the headless beast looming above him, and he could only hope that this wasn’t the end. 

***

Jaskier had been given very specific instructions. After a considerable amount of pestering, Geralt had conceded and let him accompany the Witcher as he sought out the Venomous Arachasae, but only on some non negotiable conditions. The most important of these conditions being that no matter what happened, he wouldn’t move from the spot where Geralt had left him. The Witcher had informed him just how dangerous this beast was, how even breathing the air around it could kill him. Even if the beast got the best of him, the Witcher told him, Jaskier was supposed to stay put. Lucky for Geralt, Jaskier had never been the best at following instructions. 

He watched everything unfold from a ledge overlooking the clearing where Geralt and the beast met. In front of him the ground fell away, presenting him with a steep ten or fifteen foot drop to further discourage him from coming any closer. 

Geralt had spent the majority of the fight up on the ledge with him, using his crossbow to weaken the beast from a distance, but now he was making his way down the embankment to face it head on. Jaskier held his breath as Geralt approached. He’d had a bad feeling about this whole situation from the outset, but he couldn’t very well tell Geralt that. Maybe if he had, things would have ended differently, but he had a feeling that no matter what he said to Geralt, this was destined to go poorly. 

All of his fears were confirmed as he watched the beast stab Geralt, bringing the Witcher to his knees. He audibly gasped, his hand flying up to his mouth as he stood, unable to do anything but watch as the beast prepared to deliver the death blow. He thought there was no way Geralt could defend himself, not with the amount of venom which was surely pumping through his veins, but by some miracle, the Witcher was able to raise his sword, lopping the Arachasae’s head off just before it struck again. 

As soon as it was dead, Jaskier was hit with an onslaught of opposing options. Instinctively he wanted to run down to Geralt, but the Witcher hadn’t held back when explaining just how dangerous this particular beast was. Jaskier knew that even dead, it had more than enough means to kill him. The puddles of venom around it, the venom on the carcass, even the air were enough to end him. But that was Geralt down there. In all honesty, Jaskier had no idea if the Witcher had even survived, but if he was still alive, he wouldn’t be that way for long without help. He couldn’t just leave him. He’d neglected to warn Geralt before he’d gone down to face the beast. He would be damned if he didn’t do anything to help now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in y'all. This is gonna be a long one.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier bolted forward as soon as his mind was made up. He was aware of the danger, but he couldn’t just desert Geralt. In his hurry to reach the fallen Witcher he lost his footing and began to tumble down the embankment, the plants and tree roots reaching out to grab at his arms and legs as he fell. One particularly stubborn root caught the bottom of his shirt, untucking it and exposing his chest. Pain flared across his ribcage as something cut through his now bare skin. He barely had time to notice it though because he’d reached the bottom and was scrambling to get to his feet and run to Geralt. 

He held his breath as he approached, but didn’t slow down, figuring that the faster he could get in and out the better. Making sure to avoid the toxic puddles, he made it to Geralt, his lungs burning, desperate for the air they couldn’t have. Even without breathing, he was already beginning to feel the effects of the toxic aura around the dead Arachasae. His eyes stung, tears welling in his eyes, and the air felt prickly against his skin. He needed to act fast. 

There wasn’t time to stop and check whether or not Geralt was even alive. The only thing he could focus on now was getting him and the Witcher out of the proximity of this evil beast. Jaskier hooked his arms underneath Geralt’s, dragging him away from the Arachasae. The Witcher was dead weight, and almost too much for Jaskier to carry, but he managed to drag Geralt’s limp body far enough away that the two of them were out of reach of the beast’s toxins. 

As soon as he deemed them safe from the dangers of the Arachasae, Jaskier laid Geralt on the ground, coughing and gasping for air. He couldn’t focus on himself now though; something had to be done about Geralt—and fast. He was able to ascertain pretty quickly that the Witcher was still alive, but only barely. His breathing was quick and shallow, his heartbeat weak, and his face pale. If he wasn’t able to feel Geralt’s slow heartbeat himself, he would have sworn he was looking at a corpse. 

Jaskier pulled out the dagger he kept in his boot, cutting the fabric away from where Geralt had been stabbed. Already black tendrils snaked out from the wound, making their way up his thigh. Jaskier took deep breaths doing his best to hold back the panic which threatened to drown him. He had to do something. What would Geralt have him do? He was by no means a first aid expert, but Geralt had taught him a fair amount about tending to wounds. He racked his brain for the right thing to do. Bandage it? No. He needed to do something about the venom first. 

A potion. Geralt had taken a potion before the fight; he’d said it would help protect him from the venom. There had to be another dose in his bag then. Geralt never took his last potion if he could help it.

Jaskier set off at a sprint back toward where he’d left his bag. They had moved far enough away now that the way back up to where he’d come from was a gentle slope rather than the steep incline he’d come down before. He didn’t slow down until he reached the bag, dropping to his knees and skidding the last few feet. He dug through the bag, going as fast as he dared, examining each thing until he found what he was looking for. And there it was. Golden Oriole, that’s what Geralt had taken before. Jaskier prayed it would be enough to save him now. 

He pocketed the bottle, pulling the strap of the bag over his shoulder and running back the way he had come, unsure of how much time he had left to get Geralt the potion. He refused to believe that his time was up. 

Geralt lay motionless right where Jaskier had left him. He knelt at the Witcher’s side, unstopping the bottle, careful not to spill a drop. Once it was open he cradled Geralt’s head in his arm, tipping the contents of the potion into his open mouth. Geralt remained firmly unconscious, but he didn’t choke on the potion. He gave no sign that anything had changed, but Jaskier had faith that this would help. It had to. Now that it was done though, what else could he do? He knew the potion wouldn’t be enough to counteract the venom completely. Geralt would need a healer. 

Jaskier had no idea how he’d be able to get the unconscious Witcher back to town, but he knew this was what had to be done. He wasn’t crazy about the idea of dragging Geralt all the way back to town. They’d traveled several miles to get here. It had been an easy enough hike before, but that was when all he had to carry was himself. 

Jaskier had no idea how he managed it, but after several long minutes of trying to situate the Witcher’s limp body in his arms, Jaskier managed to get Geralt over his shoulder. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was way more efficient than dragging him the whole way, and that’s not to mention what might happen to his leg with that much agitation. 

He kept hoping that Geralt would wake up—that the potion would somehow cure him enough to bring him back around. Even if he couldn’t walk, Jaskier was desperate for some guidance. With each minute that passed though, it became increasingly clear that he was going to have to do this on his own. 

His knees nearly buckled beneath him as he stood, the weight of the Witcher on his shoulders, but he managed to get upright and begin the long trek back into town. He wasn’t sure if his body was strong enough to make it, but what choice did he have? Geralt’s life hung in the balance, and Jaskier wasn’t about to be the one to let him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to play Witcher 3 this afternoon, but I died like 12 times in a row and then rage quit, so I guess torturing Geralt rlly is the vibe today.


	3. Chapter 3

I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough. We’re never going to make it. 

These thoughts ran through Jaskier’s brain with every step he took. Getting to town with Geralt on his shoulders seemed like an unattainable goal, but he kept going, telling himself that each step he took was one step closer to his destination—one step closer to help. He could feel Geralt’s heartbeat on his back, and the steady, although still worryingly shallow, movements that came with each of the Witcher’s breaths. If those breaths stopped before he made it to town, Jaskier would never forgive himself. He could do this. Just a little bit further. 

The sun had set by the time Jaskier reached the edge of the town, twilight settling over the little village. He was yelling as soon as he was close enough for anybody to hear. 

“Help! Please somebody help!” 

His voice broke, his throat burning as he pushed the limits of his vocal ability, not caring about the damage he was doing. 

“Help, please, somebody!” 

Pretty quickly, but not quickly enough for Jaskier’s liking, people began to hesitantly peek through their windows and open their front doors. Their movements became a lot less hesitant once they saw what was out there—the Witcher they’d sought out and sent away just this morning, cold and limp on the cobblestones. 

Jaskier let him fall from his shoulders as he collapsed to his knees, utterly exhausted but still screaming for help. Two women reached them first, laying Geralt flat on his back as Jaskier fought to keep himself upright. 

“Someone get a board,” the first woman called out, “We need to get him to Mera.” 

“What happened to him?” The second woman turned to Jaskier as the first woman facilitated getting Geralt on the board a man had just delivered from a shop in the town square. 

“The arachasae,” Jaskier told her, his voice hoarse, “it bit him.” 

“How long ago?” 

Jaskier coughed, still trying to catch his breath. “Hours.” He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d begun the long trek back to town, but the hike which had taken less than two hours this morning, had taken considerably longer with a Witcher on his back. He tried not to panic when he saw the woman’s face fall. 

“He took a potion to fight the venom,” he said, trying to convince the woman and himself that Geralt might be okay. “Before he got bit, and I gave him another dose after too.” 

The woman just nodded, offering a hand up as a group of townspeople lifted up the board bearing the unconscious Geralt. In the rational part of his brain, knew he didn’t have the energy to make it to the healer’s house, but he also knew he wasn’t going to leave Geralt by himself. He took the woman’s hand, relying on her probably a little too much to help him up. She didn’t let him fall though. 

He ignored the pain which radiated through his body as they made the short walk to the healer’s house. His legs, his chest, his throat, his head, all coalesced into a chorus of agony, but he knew his pain was nothing compared to Geralt’s. And he knew he could push it down if he knew that’s what it would take to save him. 

Once they had arrived at the healer’s house and Geralt was deposited on her kitchen table most of the townspeople left, but the woman who’d helped Jaskier up stayed, and for that he was immensely grateful. As soon as the healer, Mera, saw Geralt she immediately set to work, losing herself in the task of saving the Witcher, and Jaskier didn’t think he could get through this alone. The woman, whose name Jaskier would later learn was Lewen, held his hand as the two of them watched the healer work. 

If Golden Oriole, a potion crafted specifically for Witchers, hadn’t been enough to save him, Jaskier wasn’t sure what could, but he was fiercely determined not to lose hope. Much to his relief, Mera seemed to have some ideas. 

At first, nothing seemed to work. As the hour passed, Jaskier watched as the healer tried treatment after treatment, telling himself he wasn’t going to lose hope until she did. Even so, he found himself becoming more and more dejected the longer they went without any sign of change. 

Finally after nearly an hour of working, something seemed to stick. With a determined look on her face, Mera poured something down the Witcher’s throat. It seemed to work instantaneously. He coughed, his eyes fluttering open, his chest lifting ever so slightly from the table. Jaskier watched as Geralt’s face went from relaxed to tense. He was in pain, conscious, but only barely, and clearly in agony. Mera stood back as whatever she’d given him took effect. 

His whole body became rigid, his muscles tensed to the point of shaking, and his breath came in gasps. His eyes rolled back into his head so far that Jaskier could see only white, black tears rolling down his face. Black seemed to be coming from everywhere in fact. Black dripped from his nose, black flowed from the wound in his leg, he even seemed to be sweating little droplets of black liquid. Mera got to him just in time, turning his rigid body to the side as he began to vomit jet black bile. 

Jaskier had stood up when he saw Geralt move, but now he took a step back. Lewen put a steadying hand on his back as his legs threatened to give out underneath him. She helped him back into his chair as they both watched, horrified at the events unfolding in front of them. 

“What did you give him?” Jaskier asked, his voice shaking, terrified. 

Mera looked up, her eyes meeting his with a bone chilling solemnity behind them. 

“A last resort,” she said, her voice low and serious. 

“And this will save him?” Jaskier couldn’t believe something so horrifying could be helpful, but if Mera thought it would work then he would too. 

She nodded. 

“If it doesn’t kill him first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploading this at the start of a 12 hour nannying shift. Pray for me y’all.


	4. Chapter 4

“Come on. We won’t know anything until he wakes up. We’ve done all we can tonight.”   
Geralt had passed out again after a painful, and honestly terrifying, detox, and Mera said if it took he’d be in okay shape by morning. If it didn’t take, well, he wouldn’t be around to see the sunrise. 

Lewen had gone home not too long after the detox ended, leaving Jaskier alone with Mera and the unconscious Witcher. 

“No, it’s fine. I’ll stay with him.” Even though Jaskier knew there was nothing he could do to help, leaving felt wrong. If his friend woke, Jaskier didn’t want him to be alone. 

“Good or bad, he won’t be conscious for awhile now. At least let me make you dinner and get you some clean clothes. I insist.” 

Alright,” he conceded. “As long as we keep things brief.” 

“Of course,” she said. Beckoning for Jaskier to follow her to the fireplace on the other end of the room where they’d have the best light. When she heard no footsteps behind her, she turned around just in time to reach out and grab Jaskier’s arm as the world spun dangerously around him. He sat back down, in his chair, black spots dancing in his line of vision. 

Mera knelt in front of him, a concerned look on her face. 

“Do you want to tell me what that was?” she asked. 

Jaskier leaned back in his chair, taking deep breaths and trying to focus on the woman in front of him. 

“I don’t know,” he said, his heart beating altogether too quickly. “Guess I just stood up too fast.” 

This didn’t seem to placate Mera. 

“But it’s fine. I’m fine.” He moved to stand up again, but Mera put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him down. 

“You’ve had a hard day,” she said, “let’s not push it.” 

She got up, retrieving a cup of water. 

“Drink this, then we can try again,” she instructed with a patronizing smile which Jaskier chose to ignore. 

She walked back over to the other side of the room and began preparing a meal for the two of them while Jaskier began nursing his cup of water. 

“So what happened?” Mera called over her shoulder. 

“You already know,” he called back. “He got bitten by the Venomous Arachasae.” 

Mera shook her head. “Not to him—to you.” 

Jaskier’s eyebrows furrowed and he took a long drink of water to avoid the question. 

“It’s not selfish to take care of yourself, Jaskier. In fact, it’s probably best for Geralt if you do.” 

Jaskier sighed. 

“Geralt got bitten, and then I carried him on my shoulders back into town. I think I’m just tired, that’s all.” 

“Whatever you say.” 

Jaskier fought the urge to roll his eyes. After what Geralt had gone through today, him getting a little dizzy when he stood up after sitting for far too long was nothing. He finished the water and stood up, slowly this time, and ignored his protesting muscles and joints while he walked over to Mera. She pulled up a chair for him in front of the fire and he took it gratefully. 

“So are you going to let me check you out?” she asked. “Or are you going to keep being stubborn.” 

“If it’ll make you feel better then I guess.” 

Mera smirked. “Alright, take your shirt off.” 

“I beg your pardon,” Jaskier replied, taken off guard by the direction this conversation had taken. 

“You carried a Witcher on your shoulders for hours. I want to make sure you didn’t pull any muscles,” she explained. “And anyways, it’s filthy. Let me get you a fresh one.” 

“Fine,” he agreed, pulling his shirt up over his head and balling it up. As soon as he lifted up his right arm though, he felt a searing pain in his ribcage. Mera was kneeling at his side again, examining the gash across his chest which he’d somehow managed to forget about until now. 

“I think I’m just tired, that’s all,” Mera said, mocking Jaskier with his own words from earlier. 

“I completely forgot about that, I swear,” he said. With all his body had been through today, the pain of the cut must have just blended in with the rest of it. That along with the panic and exhaustion had erased it from his mind completely. 

Mera just rolled her eyes. “So are you going to tell me what really happened?” 

“I fell,” he explained, “when I was running to Geralt after he got bit. It was down an embankment; I think I got caught by a branch or something, but I forgot about it as soon as I saw what bad shape Geralt was in.” 

Mera didn’t respond, seemingly engrossed in healing again. 

“Is it bad?” he asked. 

She sighed, looking up at him after spending a minute or so ignoring his winces and protests as she prodded at the wound. 

“It’s definitely not good.” 

“Ow!” He exclaimed as Mera began to dig out the dirt which was now firmly embedded in the wound. “Did nobody teach you how to be gentle?”

She looked up, seeming annoyed at her very aggressive work being interrupted. “If I had been gentle with Geralt, he’d be dead right about now. So are you going to trust me? Or are you going to keep whining.”

This effectively shut Jaskier up. He bit the inside of his cheek as she resumed her work, partly to keep him from protesting her heavy handed wound cleaning and, although he would never admit it, partly to fight back the tears which were forming in his eyes. Her comment had gotten to him. He’d never let her know, but this day was quickly becoming too much for him to take, and her words were likely to be the final straw.

The wound began bleeding again as Mera cleaned it, but this didn’t seem to bother her. Jaskier acted as if it didn’t bother him either, but now that he was aware of the gash he was amazed that he’d ever been able to ignore it. The pain was almost too much for him to handle.   
Once the cleaning phase of the healing process was over, the whole ordeal became much easier to sit through. She applied a mixture of herbs and clean bandages, wrapping them all the way around his chest. By the time Mera finished dressing the wound Jaskier was starting to doze off, not because her work was gentle by any means, but because he was utterly and completely exhausted. She seemed to sense this, and once she was finished she got up and took his hand to lead him into a guest bedroom. He started to protest, not wanting to leave Geralt, but she stopped him. 

“Nothing more is going to happen tonight, Jaskier,” she said. “I’ll wake you if anything changes, but for now all we can do is wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy to see so many of you coming from Through the Long Night:) Hope I don't let y'all down<3


	5. Chapter 5

Jaskier was not happy to be conscious. There was no window in his room, but he could tell he’d been out for hours. He wanted nothing more than to go right back to sleep, just to escape the pain if nothing else, but he needed to know whether or not Geralt was awake. He refused to think about the alternative. 

Despite his curiosity, he took several minutes getting out of bed. His whole body ached, and the gash on his chest burned. He sat up slowly, not wanting to get dizzy again, focusing on nothing more than taking deep, slow breaths. 

Once out of bed, he made his way back out to the main room of the healer’s house. His heart dropped when he was met with a room empty except for Mera sitting in front of the fire silently reading a book. 

“What happened?” 

Mera jumped as Jaskier announced his presence. 

She turned around, chuckling. “Hell, Jaskier. You scared me.” 

He scared her? Jaskier was terrified. Where was Geralt? 

“What did you do with the Witcher?” he asked, putting a considerable amount of effort into keeping his voice even. 

“Oh,” Mera said, still seeming unperturbed. “He woke up hours ago. I put him in my room since you were in the guest room.” 

“That’s all?” 

“Yeah. He was looking a lot better.” Mera responded, clearly missing Jaskier’s sarcasm and anger. 

Well if she was going to remain calm then Jaskier decided he would get angry for the both of them. 

“What the hell? You told me you would wake me if anything happened!” 

“And I meant it,” Mera replied. “But not much happened. Geralt woke up, a little bit out of it, but feeling better nevertheless, I helped him off the table and into bed, and he went back to sleep.” 

Jaskier just stared at her, dumbfounded and annoyed. 

“You needed sleep as much as he did. Don’t hold that against me.” 

He would hold it against her if he wanted to, and there was nothing she could do about it. 

“Here, let me check on that gash.” She patted the seat next to her. 

“Are you serious?” he asked, unable to fathom how she could be so insensitive. Either   
she didn’t realize why he was angry, or she didn’t care. He wasn’t sure which was more upsetting. 

She got up and tried to lift up the hem of Jaskier’s shirt to get a look at his bandages. He swatted her hand away. 

“Where’s Geralt?” he asked. 

Once it was clear that he wouldn’t let her rebandage him, she sat back down and opened her book again, smirking. She motioned towards a door on the other side of the room. 

Jaskier huffed. That can’t have been too difficult. 

“Thank you.” 

He walked over to the door and walked inside. He’d been so preoccupied with getting in, he hadn’t prepared himself for what to do when he did it. 

Geralt lay in bed, looking pale and sickly, but very much alive. He woke up with the sound of the door shutting behind Jaskier. 

“Sorry,” Jaskier muttered as Geralt’s eyes opened to meet his. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

Geralt gave Jaskier a half smile, seeming to still be kind of out of it like Mera had said. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve been awake for a little bit now,” he said. “These walls are pretty thin.” 

Jaskier blushed. 

“You really should be nicer to the healer,” Geralt continued, his words slurring ever so slightly. “She’s been pretty helpful so far.” 

“Hmm,” Jaskier conceded, sitting down in a chair next to the bed. “Did she tell you that?” he asked. 

“Didn’t have to,” Geralt replied. “I’m here aren’t I?” 

Jaskier’s eyebrows furrowed. He wasn’t in the mood to admit Mera was right just yet. 

“So you’re feeling better then?” Jaskier asked, changing the subject. 

“I’m conscious aren’t I?” Geralt answered, repeating himself.

“I’m serious Geralt,” he insisted. “Are you in pain? Is there something I can do?” 

“You’ve done more than enough Jaskier,” Geralt said. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Just because I was unconscious doesn’t mean I can’t figure out what happened.” 

Jaskier didn’t reply, breaking eye contact. 

“So what was it exactly?” Geralt continued. “You ran all the way back to town and got townspeople with a cart to come get me?” 

“No,” Jaskier replied, still watching the floor. “I carried you.” 

This answer was met with a long moment of silence. 

“It took hours. If I’d gotten back sooner Mera might not have had to give you that awful potion.” 

Geralt chuckled. “Yeah, that wasn’t much fun.” 

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have gone for help instead. I didn’t think.” 

“You did the right thing Jaskier. Don’t second guess yourself. This would have happened whether it took one hour to get to the healer or eight. It was my fault for letting it bite me,” Geralt said. 

“How much do you remember?” Jaskier asked, unsure of how to comfort Geralt in his self doubt. 

He seemed to think for a moment. 

“I remember getting bit,” he began. “I remember when the healer finally managed to force out the venom,” he continued with a grimace. “And I remember waking up on the table a while later and coming in here to sleep.” 

“I told Mera to wake me when you woke up. I meant to be there, really.” 

“Don’t worry about it Jaskier. I was awake for all of five minutes, and getting from the table to the bedroom wasn’t pretty. I’m glad you didn’t have to see it.” 

Now it was Jaskier’s turn to laugh. 

“And anyways,” he continued, “if you dragged me all that way, you probably needed the sleep.” 

“I carried you on my shoulders actually,” Jaskier corrected him, finally letting some of his pride show on his face. 

More than pride though, Jaskier felt relief. Relief that he’d make the right decision. Relief that Mera had been able to get the venom out of his system. And relief that his friend was going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, there's still plenty of suffering to come.


	6. Chapter 6

Geralt lay in bed half awake, his eyes resting on Jaskier who was sitting guard at his bedside. It had only taken a few short minutes of conversation to drain Geralt of the little bit of energy he had, but even after a comfortable silence had settled over the room, Jaskier had remained. He looked as exhausted as Geralt felt. 

As he lay there, fighting against his heavy eyelids, he thought about the story the bard had told him—about how he’d carried the Witcher on his shoulders all the way back to town. It was hard for him to wrap his mind around. The amount of strength that must have taken was astounding. 

He kicked himself for letting it happen in the first place. If he’d been more careful dealing with the arachasae Jaskier wouldn’t have had to carry him back at all. Geralt couldn’t imagine how difficult that must have been for him, physically and emotionally. Judging by the lengths the healer had gone to trying to get him to wake up last night, he knew the long journey back to town must have been nerve wracking to say the least. 

The life of a friend is a weight that no one should have to carry. 

He watched with fondness as Jaskier’s eyes fluttered closed, his shoulders relaxing and his head bobbing forward ever so slightly. Asleep sitting up. There were dark circles under Jaskier’s eyes, standing out in stark contrast to his ashen cheeks. He’d tell the bard to go back to bed if he thought it would do any good, but he knew how stubborn Jaskier could be. And anyways, Geralt didn’t want to wake him. Instead he let his own eyes close, his heart warm with pride and endearment as he joined the bard in sleep. 

***

Geralt woke up in a considerably worse mood than he’d been in before he’d gone back to sleep. 

Despite having rid his body of a lot of the venom last night, enough remained in his system to make him miserable. His whole body hurt, the light of the room exacerbating the pain in his head and behind his eyes, and the stiffness from sleeping made itself present in a deep and persistent ache in his joints. He felt hollow, but he knew for certain that he wouldn’t be able to keep anything down. His throat was still raw from all the vomiting he’d done last night. 

And his leg. The pain would overtake him if he’d let it. It burned like someone holding a hot poker against his thigh. The searing sensation radiated out from the puncture wound, the pain and the heat giving him the irrational urge to rip the bandages off, even though he knew the relief that would bring wouldn’t be worth exposing the wound to infection. 

As a Witcher, he’d had plenty of practice with compartmentalizing pain, but as soon as he let himself focus on it he felt his muscles tense, the pain seeming to radiate out farther with each second that passed. And the longer he focused on it, the more difficult it became to stop. He gritted his teeth, his back arching as he tried in vain to get his muscles to relax. 

Despite his best efforts to keep quiet, a groan escaped his lips, waking Jaskier. He couldn’t fathom how he’d been able to hold a conversation earlier, how he’d been able to think about his aching muscles and stomach just a few moments ago, how he’d been able to focus on anything but the fire in his leg. He should never have given it a moment of thought. If he’d just ignored it he might have been able to keep the pain locked up in that back part of his mind, but no. He’d given it his attention and now it threatened to overtake him completely. 

His hands tensed into fists as he fought the growing urge to rip the bandages off—anything to douse this fire. He pressed his eyes shut, the groan having now evolved into a full on cry of pain. The room began to spin around him. 

As if from across a great distance he heard Jaskier call out. 

“Mera!” 

The healer. Yes. There was a healer here. Surely she could put out the fire. 

He forced himself to open his eyes when he felt pressure on the mattress beside him. He could tell that Jaskier and Mera were speaking, their tones frantic, but he couldn’t for the life of him make out a word they were saying. 

He opened his eyes to find Mera standing beside him, Jaskier behind her looking pale and afraid. It was hard to tell how long it’d been since Jaskier had called her in, but it must have been several minutes by now. She had a whole assortment of supplies spread out on the bed. He met her eyes as she finished preparing a set of fresh bandages soaked in a pale green liquid. 

Good. Something to help the pain. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure this fire. She freed him from the dry bandages, getting ready to replace them with the new ones she’d prepared. The cool air felt good against his burning skin. 

He told himself not to look, but he couldn’t resist. He lifted his head from the pillow so he could see the wound. It was worse than he’d thought. The skin was swollen and tight, bright red except right around the edges of the puncture where it was black. His stomach turned.

He didn’t have time to feel nauseous though, because the healer was placing the soaked bandages on it now. He exhaled, ready for the relief he was sure this would bring, but no relief came. Whatever she’d put on it was only adding fuel to the fire, making the pain deeper and sharper. It was white hot now, reaching all the way down to the bone. 

His exhale morphed into another cry of pain as his vision went black, and to his great relief, he was plunged back into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all I'm so sorry for the delay on this one. I'm usually better with uploading consistently, but I've been super busy with school work. Term ends soon though, and I'll have chapters up a lot more regularly once I'm on winter break. 
> 
> Anyway. Happy Thanksgiving to any of y'all who celebrate it. I'm thankful for all of you<3


	7. Chapter 7

“Mera!” 

Jaskier had been woken just a few moments ago from his fitful nap by Geralt groaning. Before he had time to react he watched the Witcher begin to writhe in pain, his hands in fists, and his back arching as he cried out. What had happened? Mera had said he’d been doing better. He’d looked like he was doing better, but now? This was clearly no longer the case. 

The healer rushed into the room. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?” 

Jaskier was at a loss for words. He wasn’t sure what had happened. Geralt had seemed fine earlier when they’d been talking. He couldn’t figure out what had changed. 

“I don’t know,” he stammered. “I just woke up and then he was like this.” 

Mera huffed. 

Jaskier knew he wasn’t helping, but he didn’t know what to say. 

Without another word, she left the room, returning a minute later with an armful of supplies which she laid out on the bed around the incapacitated Witcher. 

Jaskier stepped back, knowing there was nothing he could do to help now. 

“Do you know what’s wrong?” Jaskier asked, hoping that somehow she’d figured it out, even without any help from him. 

She nodded, beginning to soak strips of bandages in a syrupy pale green liquid. 

“Where he got bit,” she began, “Is in a part of the body with a huge amount of blood flow. We got enough venom out last night to save him, but there’s still venom getting carried through his blood stream. And there’s a lot of blood flowing to his leg, since it’s wounded, so more of the venom is collecting there.” 

Jaskier still didn’t quite understand. 

“Is he going to be alright?” he asked, terrified that all the work they put in last night might have been for nothing.

Mera didn’t answer right away, still busy preparing the new bandages. 

“He should be,” she finally replied. “It’s got to hurt like hell though.” 

Jaskier could have come to that conclusion on his own. Geralt’s eyes were still pressed shut, his muscles tensed, and his back arched against the mattress. 

“And those will help?” Jaskier asked, motioning towards the bandages. 

Mera looked sheepish. 

“They’ll draw out more of the venom,” she replied, “but I’m not sure if they’ll do anything for the pain.” 

Geralt had his eyes open now, his face gaunt as he looked down at the wound on his leg. He looked unsettled for sure, but not panicked. 

Jaskier wanted so badly to comfort him, but he stood frozen, unsure of what to do or say, feeling like as much of a victim to the events unfolding as Geralt was. Jaskier followed the Witcher’s line of sight to the leg wound. He felt the blood drain from his face, leaving only dizziness in its wake. The puncture was ugly, the angry red contrasted sharply with black. This was not the way a wound should look. 

Then Mera was placing the soaked bandages on the wound, and erasing any of the composure left on the Witcher’s face. 

Jaskier took a step back, watching as Mera covered Geralt’s leg with the bandages. Just like with the potion last night, the effects seemed instantaneous. Black liquid started to seep into the bandages, dripping down Geralt’s thigh. 

The Witcher thrashed, a cry of agony piercing the silence of the room. Luckily the pain didn’t seem to last too long. Only a few seconds passed before Geralt’s eyes rolled back into his skull again. His eyelids fluttered and closed as the Witcher lost consciousness again. For this Jaskier was grateful. 

His own breath was coming too fast now, and he was afraid he might be sick. He’d never seen someone practice healing like Mera did. He wasn’t sure whether to thank her for saving Geralt, or to hate her for hurting him. He wished he was more knowledgeable about healing so he could determine for himself whether or not anything else could be done to ease the pain. 

Already she was collecting her supplies, seemingly getting ready to leave the room. The green tinted bandages remained draped across Geralt’s thigh, more black saturating them with each passing moment. 

“Wait,” he said, reaching out to grab her shoulder before she left the room, “what now?” 

“We wait,” she answered, throwing his own word back at him. 

“So you’re just going to leave him?” 

Geralt was out cold now, but Jaskier’s head was still spinning from everything that had happened in the past few minutes. 

“The stuff I put on his leg just now should keep pulling venom from the wound. I’ll come and change the bandages in a little while,” she explained.

“But you said it was painful,” Jaskier argued. “What about that?” 

“What about it? He’s unconscious now. He won’t feel anything.” 

Jaskier’s eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t like how nonchalant she was. Maybe Jaskier was going soft, but seeing someone pass out due to extreme pain was generally an unsettling turn of events. Mera seemed completely unfazed. It bothered him a bit how unbothered she was. 

“We’ll deal with that problem when it comes,” she answered, brushing off his concerns. “Come get me if he wakes. We’ll figure out something for the pain then.” 

He couldn’t think of a response to this, and Mera could certainly tell. She finished gathering her supplies and left the room. 

Jaskier just stood for a moment, letting the events of the past few minutes sink in and their corresponding emotions wash over him before slumping back down in his chair at Geralt’s bedside. He winced as the chest wound he kept forgetting about protested. He tried to move to take any pressure off of his ribcage, but he was unable to find a suitable position. 

He finally gave up, balling his hands into fists for a long moment before burying his face in his hands. He pushed his hands against his cheekbones and eyes, as if the spots of pain they left there could somehow cancel out the pain in his chest and all of his frustration at how poorly everything was going. 

He wanted comfort. He wanted sympathy. More than anything he wanted Geralt, but none of those things were available to him now. 

So instead the bard cried. He knew it wouldn’t fix things, but it would give him a release, however temporary. And Jaskier was ready to take whatever he could get.


	8. Chapter 8

Geralt didn’t wake again until the late afternoon. He still seemed to be in a great deal of pain. At least now it wasn’t extreme enough to leave him writhing on the bed. 

Mera, as she’d promised, had come back to “deal with the problem as it came” as she had put it. She’d given Geralt a concoction of herbs, and maybe more than a little alcohol, to help deal with the discomfort. She seemed almost entertained as she told Jaskier about how this mixture was enough to knock out three grown men. As it was, it left Geralt looking much more comfortable, and a little bit loopy. Hey lay on the bed, his eyes half closed, his chest rising and falling with his slow, deep, breaths. 

Mera was quite vocal about how amazed she was at how his Witcher metabolism burned through her anesthetics. Jaskier was just glad he wasn’t in too much pain. 

“If I gave that to you, you’d be out for a week,” Mera told Jaskier, grinning. 

Jaskier was once again astounded by both her bedside manner and her priorities. He couldn’t deny though, the proposition was tempting. He’d spent the afternoon watching over the unconscious Witcher, prepared to call Mera in as soon as he woke. Now that Geralt was awake and comfortable enough, Jaskier was ready to pass out for a few hours. He’d slept fitfully the night before, and he was still exhausted from his trek through the woods getting Geralt back to town. The pain in his chest wasn’t helping either, and he thought if he could just get a few hours of sleep he might be alright. 

“Now that he’s awake we should try to get some food in him,” Mera said, looking from Geralt, still only half conscious on the bed, to Jaskier. “Come help me get something ready.” She beckoned to Jaskier. 

He wasn’t sure if he was quite up to standing around in the kitchen, and he was certain he wasn’t up for making conversation, but he followed her anyway. 

“Are you going to let me check out that gash?” 

He should have guessed she’d have ulterior motives. 

“It’s fine,” he grumbled. 

She had the audacity to laugh. 

“Have you told your Witcher yet?” 

Jaskier sighed, sitting down at the table, hoping she didn’t actually want him to help make food. 

“Yeah, I casually mentioned it while he was thrashing around in extreme pain.” He was too tired to hide his sarcasm now, and too annoyed to open up to her. 

“He’s going to find out eventually,” she warned him, trying and failing to sound ominous.

“As long as he’s in pain, I’m not going to bother him with mine.” 

She shook her head, turning her back on him as she put a pot of stew on the stove. 

“Tell me how that works out for you bard,” she said, stirring the stew. “I’m sure it’ll be   
great.” 

***

Geralt couldn’t feel his toes. While this would normally be concerning, not being able to feel his toes meant the pain in his leg was dulled enough to be almost ignorable. This level of functioning wasn’t sustainable, but for the moment he was glad to be removed from the effects of his injury, even if it meant sacrificing a clear head. 

“Here,” Mera, helped him prop himself up against the headboard before handing him a bowl of something steaming. 

He took it, enjoying the warmth, but still not so sure how he felt about eating. Anyway, the painkiller would hit harder on an empty stomach. 

Jaskier was back in his spot in the bedside chair looking just as reluctant as he was to eat his soup. He’d probably be concerned about this if he was thinking more clearly. Right now though he mostly just felt glad. Glad to not be in so much pain, glad to have a warm meal—regardless of whether or not he was going to eat it. And more than anything he was glad Jaskier was here with him. 

***

Geralt fell asleep again not long after their meal. Neither of them had felt up to eating much, but they’d shared a mostly one sided conversation, and the Witcher assured him that he was feeling better. Even though Jaskier knew it was the painkillers talking, he was still happy to hear it. 

The evening had drawn to an uneventful close, Geralt sleeping straight through sunset, and Jaskier following not long after. His head lolled against his chest as he drifted off sitting up in the chair next to the bed. The bed in the other room would surely give him a much better night’s rest, but he didn’t trust Mera enough to leave Geralt, especially after she’d failed to wake him last night when Geralt had regained consciousness. At least that’s what he told himself. He also knew if he stayed in here he’d be less likely to be subjected to her pestering. 

His chest was fine, and her constant badgering wasn’t helping anything. He crossed his arms over his torso, trying and failing to adjust his bandages in a way that didn’t cause them to rub uncomfortably against the cut on his chest. It was hard to ignore the heat radiating from under the bandages; it created a stark contrast against his icy hands. 

Doing his best to block out his discomfort, he focused on Geralt’s breathing, trying to align his own breaths with the deep even ones of the Witcher. As soon as his ribs expanded though, he was met with a stab of pain. Panic began to creep up his throat, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He swallowed it down, telling himself he’d feel better when he woke up. 

All he needed—all both of them needed—was a few days here to rest and recuperate. Their wounds would heal under the semi-concerning but seemingly capable hands of Mera the healer. Then they would be back on the path, just as they had been before, and Geralt would never have to know about Jaskier’s injury. 

He knew the Witcher felt bad about Jaskier having to carry him back to town; he’d be insufferably self-deprecating if he knew Jaskier had gotten injured in the process. But everything would be alright, because Geralt never had to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I just finished finals though, so I should be updating regularly from now on, at least until term starts again in January:)


	9. Chapter 9

“Jaskier. Jaskier!” 

He wasn’t sure how long Geralt had been saying his name before he awoke. Opening his eyes, he was surprised to find Geralt sitting up in bed, looking at him expectantly. 

Even without moving his chest burned, the pain creeping up into his throat making his head swim and his stomach churn. Sleep had done nothing to help him—in fact he felt worse now than he had before. Maybe turning down the bed hadn’t been the best idea.

“I hope you’re rested. We’re traveling today.” 

What? Traveling? Now? Where could they need to go so badly that Geralt would travel in his condition? 

“What do you mean?” Jaskier asked, his voice slurred and thick with sleep. 

“Nenneke.” His answer was short, curt, and wholly unhelpful. 

“And why would we possibly need to travel now?” 

“We’ve already been in this town too long. It’s no good for my reputation.” 

Jaskier sighed, shutting his eyes, wishing he was still asleep. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve grown fond of Mera’s hospitality,” Geralt added. 

Jaskier didn’t reward this sentiment with a glare, even though he wanted to desperately. He was far too tired to deal with Geralt’s utter lack of self preservation right now. 

“I like Mera just fine,” Jaskier lied. “And I’ve fixed your reputation before. I’ll do it again, just please don’t make me go back out on the path yet.” 

“What’s your problem, bard?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskie sat up a little straighter, opening his eyes to meet Geralt’s gaze. He’d almost forgotten that Geralt wasn’t aware of his injury. He could get away with a little complaining, but if he really wanted to escape getting back on the road he’d have to tell Geralt the truth, which was something he was still unwilling to do. 

“You’re my problem,” Jaskier quipped. “If we get stranded in the middle of the woods because you can’t walk, I’m going to be the one stuck tending to you.” 

Geralt had the audacity to laugh, responding to Jaskier’s argument with a cold, humorless chuckle. 

“I don’t have to walk; I’ll be able to ride Roach just fine. Melitele’s temple isn’t far from here. It’ll be a two day journey if we go slowly, then we’ll be able to rest up there until my leg is healed enough to go back out on the path.”

“But...Yesterday,” Jaskier replied, remembering Geralt passing out from the pain as his leg bled that terrible black blood. “Even on Roach, how are you going to travel on that leg?” 

“I just slept for fourteen hours,” Geralt pointed out, as if this was common knowledge. “I heal quicker than you do Jaskier.” 

Jaskier knew this was just Geralt trying to win an argument, but it still gave him the odd sensation that he’d been found out. No. Geralt couldn’t know. There was no way. And he wasn’t about to find out. He wrapped his arms around his chest tighter. 

“It’s by no means fully healed, but I’m well enough to be up and about. Mera told me what she used to get the venom out, and what to use for pain. I’ll be able to manage without her just fine.” 

Jaskier’s mind was scrambling for any argument which might let them stay here for a little while longer. 

“Now come on,” Geralt continued, “we’ve got some distance to cover today. I don’t want this journey to be any longer than it has to be.” 

There doesn’t have to be any journey at all, Jaskier thought, thoroughly irritated at the morning’s events. 

“I’ll go get Roach then,” he huffed. 

Normally any task pertaining to Roach was strictly Geralt’s, but Jaskier was certain that Geralt wasn’t nearly as healed as he said he was, and he was afraid if he stayed in the room much longer he’d say something angry and make this whole ordeal even worse than it already was. 

He waited until he was out of the room before he let any of his pain show on his face. He was happy that Geralt’s fourteen hours of sound sleep in a comfortable bed had been enough to get him back on his feet—metaphorically at least—but Jaskier’s fitful night’s sleep upright in the chair seemed to have only made him feel worse. 

Mera approached him, carrying two water pails alongside a young girl who appeared to be twelve or thirteen, just as Jaskier was contemplating sliding down the outer wall of the house to sit on the ground for a few minutes before going to the stables to collect Roach. The thought of even walking down the road to the stable made his chest ache, and his shirt was already starting to stick to his chest due to the sweat collecting there, the heat from the gash reflecting back onto his skin. He was suddenly afraid he might be sick. His limbs felt weak and his head spun. 

“So did you tell your Witcher the truth yet?” Mera asked, seemingly entertained by Jaskier’s suffering. 

He pressed his eyes shut, wanting out of this awful situation he’d gotten himself into. 

“I’m supposed to be getting the horse right now,” he moaned, not having the energy to hide his suffering from the healer or her young apprentice. 

“Elia go fetch the Witcher’s horse. The stableboy will know which one you mean,” she instructed, sending the girl away. 

Once she was gone Jaskier gave in and slumped down onto the ground. He didn’t protest as Mera lifted up the hem of his shirt to examine his injury. 

“Oh bard,” she said. For the first time he heard a tinge of sympathy in her tone. 

“I know I messed up, please just help me,” he asked, ready to throw his dignity out the window if that was what it took to get the pain to stop. “Whatever you need to do, do it, but I need to be on the road today. Geralt’s leaving.” 

“I’m aware,” she said, “And with my herbs and his Witcher constitution he’ll do alright, but you?” 

He met her eyes, his gaze deadly serious. 

“If I don’t go with him now, he’ll leave without me. What if something happens to him on the path alone?” Jaskier couldn’t bear the thought of Geralt traveling on his own in his state. Even if he was feeling better, he still couldn’t walk. It would only take one thing going wrong to render him helpless. 

“Please. Whatever it takes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big dumbass energy from both our boys


	10. Chapter 10

“Sit still,” Mera pestered. 

“I’m trying,” Jaskier snapped, frustrated. “It hurts.” 

Her hands were freezing against the hot, tender skin around his wound. 

“You told me you wanted me to do whatever it took, and anyways, you haven’t given me much time. If you’d come to me last night, I would have been better able to give you a nice comfortable experience. If you want this done before your Witcher gets suspicious you’d best sit still and let me work.” 

Jaskier was growing more and more paranoid now that Geralt would find out, so he and Mera were still situated outside on the ground, not wanting Geralt to hear them through the shared wall between the kitchen and his room. 

Jaskier winced as Mera’s cold fingers skimmed over the sensitive edge of the gash, swiping over the whole swath of skin with a disinfectant. 

“This might sting,” she informed him after the disinfectant was already applied. 

He grit his teeth, his hands balling into fists around the fabric of his shirt, which he’d taken off when Mera had agreed to help him. 

“It’ll stop in a second, just wait.” 

“What do I need to do to be able to travel like this?” he asked, breathing heavily and trying to distract himself from the pain. 

“I don’t suppose you’ll listen to me if I tell you that you really shouldn’t be traveling at all.” she stated. 

“He’ll leave without me,” he moaned, “please, I only have to make it through two days.” 

Mera sighed. 

“And you’ll be able to get treated by a healer once you’re done traveling?” 

Jaskier nodded. He wasn’t sure how true this was, but he figured Nenneke would be willing to help him. This was a problem to be dealt with later though; right now all that mattered was getting back on the path with Geralt. 

“Well it’s infected,” Mera informed him. “I think you’re already feeling the effects of that. You’re going to have to work hard if you want to stay on your feet for two more days.” 

He looked at her expectantly. 

“Lots of water,” she instructed. “Apply this once a day,” she held up the container of what she’d just put on the wound, “and keep the bandages clean.” 

“Thank you,” he breathed, the stinging pain finally starting to dissipate. 

“And try not to over exert yourself, although I suspect that one is a lost cause.” 

She shook her head disapprovingly, standing up and offering him a hand as her apprentice reappeared with Roach. 

“You’re in for one hell of a journey, bard. I wish you the best.” 

***

“Jaskier, come on. I don’t want to be on the road any longer than we have to be.” 

Geralt had been able to get situated on Roach easily enough, and now that they were going, he seemed intent on taking this journey at an unforgiving pace. 

Jaskier swore under his breath. “I don’t get why we have to go so fast,” he muttered, not bothering to hide his irritation. 

“The less time on the road the better,” Geralt replied. 

We don’t have to be on the road at all, Jaskier thought to himself, begrudgingly speeding up his pace. 

He wasn’t sure how he’d be able to keep up like this for two days. It had been barely two hours and he was about ready to give up. He’d originally thought the pain in his chest would be the biggest obstacle, but it was quickly becoming eclipsed by newer, more worrying symptoms. The pain was to be expected, but the nausea, fatigue, and vertigo were frighteningly present and becoming worse and worse with each passing minute. He almost lost his footing once or twice, and he knew he’d have to be more careful if he wanted to escape Geralt’s notice. 

Just one more step, he told himself, one more step and then I can stop. He could make it to Melitele’s Temple if he kept on putting one foot in front of the other. 

***

Geralt and Jaskier traveled in silence. Geralt was used to the bard filling their journeys with chatter, song, and mindless one sided conversation, but the quiet wasn’t unwelcome. He’d thought traveling on Roach would work well enough, but he was in more pain than he’d ever admit. 

“Jaskier, come on,” he urged the bard to walk faster. 

He could hear Jaskier cursing him under his breath, but didn’t pay it much attention. He figured the quietness and overall uncharacteristic irritability was just a result of having to travel faster than he was used to. It wasn’t until later in the day that Geralt began to worry. 

They stopped for the day around sunset. Not wanting to build a fire, Geralt divvied up some of their trail rations, eagerly starting in on his own portion of bread and jerky. 

Jaskier however, just stared down at his, looking very much not hungry. 

“Not happy with your fare?” Geralt asked, more amused at this point than anything else. 

“No, it’s fine,” he mumbled, taking a bite of the bread. 

It was then Geralt noticed how pale he was, his pallid cheeks almost appearing to be tinted green in the fading light. He decided not to tease him anymore. It had been a long day for both of them. Jaskier deserved a break. 

They finished the meal in silence, Jaskier picking at his bread for a few more minutes before stuffing the rest in his bag for later, citing tiredness and disappearing into his bedroll. 

Geralt followed not long after. After he finished eating, he’d applied the herbs Mera had given him for his leg. He’d hoped by now most of the venom was gone from his system, but like before, as soon as the herbs were on the wound it started bleeding that terrible black blood. He couldn’t suppress the moan of pain that escaped his lips. He grit his teeth, reaching for the vial of painkiller, worried his noise might have woken Jaskier. He glanced over to where the bard lay on the ground. Much to his relief, he was still sound asleep.

Jaskier seemed exhausted—he had all day—but they’d be at Melitele’s Temple by this time tomorrow. Both of them could rest then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, I started work on a collab fic with Wiseskylight. It's called Made in the Dark and the first chapter is up now. You should check it out, yknow, if you're into that sort of thing.


	11. Chapter 11

Geralt woke with a jolt to the sound of Jaskier crying out in his sleep. Heavily under the influence of Mera’s painkillers as he was, it took him a long moment to realize the bard was still unconscious. He let his muscles relax. They weren’t being attacked, nobody was here, Jaskier must simply be having a bad dream. 

The logical thing now would be to go back to sleep. He lay back down, closing his eyes, ready to fall asleep, but he couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that something was wrong. He exhaled, frustrated, and sat up again. Jaskier was only a few feet away, so he sort of half dragged himself over to Jaskier’s bedroll, ignoring the pain in his leg which even the strongest herbs hadn’t been able to numb. 

He didn’t need to look at Jaskier to realize something was wrong. Once he was within a foot of the sleeping bard he wondered how he hadn’t noticed earlier. Jaskier was radiating heat, his forehead beaded with sweat. His face, which had been a pale sickly green earlier, had shifted dramatically to a flushed pink. 

Placing his hand on Jaskier’s forehead it was easy to tell he was running a fever—and a high one at that. How long had he been like this? All day? Since before they left Mera’s? He remembered Jaskier’s reluctance to leave the healer’s house this morning. Then it had just seemed like the somewhat lazy nature Jaskier sometimes took on when he hadn’t gotten enough sleep. Geralt had been too caught up in his own plans to give it much thought then. 

There was nothing he could do to remedy the morning’s mistakes now though. Now he needed to deal with the problem at hand. He needed to get Jaskier’s body temp down or he’d boil in his bedroll. 

He started by peeling back the blanket. Jaskier stirred in his sleep, moaning slightly, but didn’t wake. Once the blankets were pulled back Geralt realized Jaskier had pulled his shirt off in his sleep. It took him a moment to grasp what he was seeing though, because in the absence of a shirt, the bard’s chest was wrapped in cloth—bandages which needed to be changed hours ago by the look of them. 

“Oh Jaskier,” he breathed, “what did you do?” 

***

The first thing Jaskier was aware of was a gentle hand on his forehead. Mera? Was he finally sick enough to gain her pity? He opened his eyes, immediately struck with a dizzying sense of confusion as the scene in front of him failed to match his expectations. His last memory was of the healer’s house, but it wasn’t Mera standing above him, it was Geralt, and both of them were laying on the ground. 

“What?” he mumbled, looking around, frantic, trying to figure out where they were. 

“Shh, lie still,” Geralt instructed. His harsh tone brought him back to the present. They were on the trail. He remembered Geralt pushing him to go faster. He remembered how awful he’d felt, his head pounding and the forest spinning around him as he tried to keep up. 

“I’m fine,” he insisted. Geralt couldn’t find out he was injured. He tried to push the Witcher’s hand away, but stopped as the movement sent a wave of pain through his chest. 

“Here, drink this.” Geralt ignored his admittedly weak protests, and brought something to his lips. 

“No,” he moaned, knowing anything he put in his stomach right now would come right back up. 

“You’re dehydrated,” Geralt said. “And we need to get your fever down.” 

Dehydrated? He remembered vaguely Mera saying something about how he needed to drink water, but he’d emptied his canteen early in the day, and at Geralt’s pace he hadn’t been able to refill it. By the time they’d stopped to set up camp for the night, he’d been too exhausted to do anything other than go to bed. 

He let Geralt tip what must have been his own waterskin to his lips, taking a few hesitant sips before pulling away. 

“Can you sit up?” Geralt asked once he’d finished drinking. “I need to change these bandages.” 

He wasn’t sure if he could, but then Geralt had a hand on his back, pushing him upright. Fire blazed across his chest and black spots danced in his vision. He was going to pass out. 

Geralt must have noticed this, because he brought up his second hand, putting one on each shoulder to keep him up. 

“Hey, breathe,” he commanded. “You’re okay.” 

He wasn’t okay. The fire in his chest was only growing, the water threatened to make a reappearance, and it took all of his energy to keep his head up. 

“It’ll only take a minute,” Geralt assured him. He kept his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders for a few long moments until Jaskier was reasonably sure he wouldn’t collapse as soon as the Witcher let go. 

Geralt started slowly unwrapping the bandages, and Jaskier began to shiver. The sweat covering his torso and the cool night air creating a wicked duo. 

“Relax. Breathe.” Geralt sped up, freeing Jaskier’s rib cage from the thick layer of bandages. 

He kept waiting for Geralt to say something, to get angry or reprimand him, but the Witcher remained silent as he bunched up the soiled bandages. Maybe he was worse off than he thought. 

“This is infected, Jaskier.” 

He shook as a violent shiver ran down his spine. “You don’t say,” he stammered. 

Geralt glared at him. “I assume you told Mera.” 

He nodded. “She gave me something,” he murmured. “Herbs. In my bag.” 

Luckily they were in arms reach because Geralt still couldn’t walk and Jaskier doubted he could even stand at this point. 

Geralt rummaged through his bag until he found the herbs, and then prepared a cloth to clean the wound before rebandaging it. 

He braced himself for the pain, not excited for the bite of the disinfectant, but knowing deep down that this was probably the least of the pain in store for him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put off all of my responsibilities to write this chapter. Definitely bc I love you guys and for sure not because I am a terrible, self sabotaging procrastinator. 
> 
> Anyways, hope you like it.


	12. Chapter 12

Geralt wished he could pace. He was full of restless energy, trapped on the ground next to Jaskier feeling frustrated, and angry, but more than anything he felt scared. Jaskier lay next to him, burning with fever and shaking as he hovered between waking and sleep. An hour had passed since Jaskier had woken him, and even with his wound cleaned and fresh bandages applied, it was clear he was getting worse, not better. Geralt marveled at how he’d possibly been able to travel in this condition all day. 

“Especially with you pushing him like you did”, he thought to himself. No. He had been working with the information he’d been given. He couldn’t beat himself up for something he hadn’t been told about. Anyway, a self deprecating Geralt would be no help to Jaskier now. And none of this would have happened if the damned bard had been honest with him before leaving Mera’s. The more he thought about it the more frustrated he became. Perhaps he should have sensed something was wrong, yes, but Jaskier knew he was in no condition to travel, yet he had followed Geralt into the woods regardless. 

He shook his head, trying to focus on the problem at hand rather than how it could have been prevented. All blame aside, Jaskier needed care. Geralt worried, though, that Jaskier required care which he was unable to provide. Their situation was harrowing, and it offered no clear solution. 

Obviously the best scenario for both of them would be to take refuge at Melitele’s temple, but that was still a day’s travel away. Earlier he’d barely been able to keep himself upright while Geralt changed his bandages; he doubted he’d be able to keep himself in the saddle, even with the Geralt there holding him. And even if he could, the ride would be incredibly painful for them both. Riding had been painful enough for Geralt today and that had been without having to, not only make room for, but support a second person. And Jaskier? With as ill as he was and with a wound like that, travel now would be torturous. 

So they would stay here until the fever broke and Jaskier could ride with Geralt on Roach. The Witcher would be able to endure the pain, that was one variable here which he’d just have to make peace with. 

But how long would it be before Geralt could get the fever down? Currently it was going nowhere but up. What did Geralt have at his disposal to try and get his body moving in the right direction. The bard alternated between sweating and shivering, half conscious, unable to even keep down water. 

Water. There lie what was perhaps the biggest problem. Jaskier was clearly dehydrated. Geralt couldn’t give up trying to get water in him, but so far his few attempts had ended with Jaskier throwing up, barely able to move the few necessary inches away from his bedroll. Even so, Geralt was unwilling to give up, but between the two of them they only had so much water. Jaskier’s waterskin was bone dry, and while Geralt’s was mostly full, how long would it last them? He couldn’t very well go out and refill them himself—the river was a several minute walk away and his leg would bear no weight, even with the painkillers. And Jaskier was clearly not going anywhere anytime soon. 

He felt trapped. Backed into a corner. There were no good options, and there was significant danger involved with both traveling and staying. Was the possibility of a broken neck riding Roach a better option than a slow death by dehydration while they waited for a stubborn fever to break? Or would the fever kill him first? And that wasn’t even mentioning how incredibly vulnerable they were out here. It would only take one creature coming along to end both of them. The two of them were defenseless apart from Geralt’s signs, but even those required energy—energy which the pain and the lack of sleep were quickly sapping from him. 

While he was considering his options he heard Jaskier stir. The bard turned over onto his back, trying and failing to push off his blanket. Geralt lay a hand on his forehead, hoping that somehow his temperature had gone down. No luck. In a perfect world he’d dip a cloth in cold water to lay on his forehead or the back of his neck to try and cool him down. Well, in a perfect world they wouldn’t be in this situation at all. 

As the night passed it became increasingly clear that waiting for Jaskier’s fever to break on its own was not an option. He kept telling himself they’d wait just a little longer. With every hour that passed with Jaskier’s body temperature staying dangerously high Geralt told himself they would only wait one more. One more hour and then they would know for sure they had to move. And when that hour passed it was half an hour. Then fifteen minutes. Five minutes. And each time he prayed that by the grace of some god, any god, Jaskier’s fever would break. Each time he was met with nothing but a scorching forehead and a steadily depleting water supply. 

He didn’t want to accept it, but he knew what they had to do. They had to get to Melitele’s temple. Sooner rather than later. As soon as his mind was made up he kicked himself for waiting so long. He wasn’t sure how much longer Jaskier could keep going with a fever this high. How deep into his body had this infection penetrated? He already couldn’t eat or drink. What would go next? His heart? His lungs? The sun was peeking over the horizon now, and Geralt knew he couldn’t afford to waste any more time. But this didn’t erase the problems he’d met earlier—the reasons why he hadn’t stuck Jaskier in the saddle and traveled through the night with him as soon as he’d realized the bard was sick. Travel was the only way to save him, yes. But it could just easily kill him. And it would undoubtedly be agony for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting an emotional support group for all of us who spent all day waiting for the Witcher bloopers to be released only to watch them and see that Joey Batey isn't in a SINGLE FRAME. I'm upset.


	13. Chapter 13

Making up his mind had been half the battle. Knowing Jaskier’s life lay in the balance had made the choice about whether to stay or go painfully difficult. He’d done it though, for better or for worse, and now he faced the second half of the battle. For every bit of mental pain the decision had caused, carrying out what he’d decided to do promised every bit of that pain in physical form, and ten times worse. He’d made peace with the pain for himself, but he had no idea how he’d be able to subject Jaskier to it, regardless of how necessary it was. 

He put off waking Jaskier, instead opting to get everything ready first, wanting the bard to be able to have a last few moments of relative comfort. 

He did his best to gather everything up without aggravating his own injury. He then called Roach over. She’d been well trained, and was used to dealing with an injured rider, so Geralt knew that of all the things he needed to worry about, Roach performing admirably was not one of them. 

Earlier when he’d been faced with the prospect of a long ride he’d taken a healthy dose of painkillers and the trip had been uncomfortable, but bearable. Now though, he’d need to be sober if he wanted to make sure he and Jaskier arrived at Melitele’s temple safely. He had the vial in his hand, just about to put it in his bag when an idea came to him. 

He remembered Mera saying something. Despite the haze of drugs he’d been under at the time, the statement had stuck with him. She’d been speaking to Jaskier, bragging about the potency of her concoction. 

“If I gave that to you, you’d be out for a week.” 

Geralt didn’t need a week, only a day. Jaskier would be harder to manage if he were unconscious, but the pain it would spare him from might be the difference between a successful journey and one which ended in tragedy. 

“Jaskier, wake up. It’s time to go.” 

It took a fair bit of coaxing to get Jaskier awake, and even then he seemed far from lucid, but Geralt managed to get to drink some of the painkiller. 

He explained everything as he did it. He doubted Jaskier was registering much of anything he was saying, and he hoped he would be unconscious for the foreseeable future, but he talked the bard through his plan anyway. This was partly because if Jaskier was able to register what was going on, Geralt wanted him to be as informed as possible. Mostly though, it made him feel a little bit less alone. He’d made the decision alone, and now he had to execute it alone. What he wouldn’t give for a little guidance. 

***

The potion worked exactly as he’d hoped. It only took a few minutes before Jaskier was out cold. Getting him onto Roach had been no small feat, and probably would have been impossible if not for her training and patience. Finally after considerable effort and a fair amount of trial and error, Geralt managed to situate Jaskier so he was sitting in front of the Witcher. Geralt then used a blanket to tie the two of them together—not unlike the way mothers carry around their babies—so he wouldn’t run the risk of falling off Roach’s back and breaking his neck.

It wasn’t perfect. Jaskier’s too-hot body pressed up against his own was already starting to make Geralt sweat, and Jaskier’s head lolled forward free from the confinement of Geralt’s makeshift straps. He’d wake up with one hell of a sore neck, but if he woke up at all that would be the least of his worries. 

Now all they had to do was ride the rest of the way to Melitele’s Temple. 

Easier said than done. 

From the first minute, Geralt could tell this was going to be the longest ride of his life. 

Their position was vital to keep Jaskier safe, but it was far from comfortable. Jaskier’s leg was right up against Geralt’s, ensuring the fabric of the Witcher’s pants was always rubbing against the wound. Even through the bandages it burned. 

He urged Roach to go faster. She could tell he was hurt, and was taking the slow, even steps that were customary when carrying when carrying an injured rider. They lessened the pain of riding, yes, but right he didn’t need comfort. He needed to get Jaskier to safety. 

Geralt pushed Roach to go as fast as she could, his own pain increasing with each step. Before even an hour passed he knew this was going to be much more than he bargained for. 

He wanted to scream, or cry, or something. Anything. He’d decided earlier that his own comfort was something he was willing to give up, but there was no way he could have anticipated this. It took every last bit of energy he had to keep himself from falling unconscious. Black was already encroaching on the edges of his vision, his head spinning. He gritted his teeth so hard he thought they might begin to fracture. He had to stay focused on the road. He had to make sure Jaskier was safe. If he passed out now they were both in for a terrible fall. No amount of training on Roach’s part would be able to keep two unconscious riders in the saddle. 

Just one day, he told himself. He could handle anything for just one day. 

It was an unconvincing lie, but he held onto it for all he was worth. 

The burning in his leg was unbearable. It felt as if someone was holding a white hot poker to the flesh on his thigh, the metal growing hotter with each passing minute. 

He focused on Jaskier in front of him. The bard’s heartbeat was still strong enough that Geralt could feel it against his own chest. In an effort to block out the impending blackness in his peripherals, and keep his eyes from unfocusing, he started to count Jaskier’s heartbeats. 

They were far from steady, and still worryingly fast, but Geralt knew each one which passed brought them closer to Melitele’s Temple, and as long as it kept going, so would he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's be honest, Roach is the real MVP here. 
> 
> I know this chapter is a little fillery. I'm having a bit of a rough go of it right now, but I hope to have a few more chapters up before I have to go back to school. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys are enjoying this so far, and I hope you all have a merry Christmas (if you're into that sort of thing).


	14. Chapter 14

Geralt was convinced he was dead. He wasn’t sure when his death had occurred, but he was certain of one thing. This was hell. It was the only cause he could think of for such terrible, agonizing, unrelenting pain. What could he have possibly done in his life to deserve this eternal torment? Or was this the end reserved for all Witchers? 

He was aware of so little now. Most of what registered was pain, any input from his other senses being drowned out by his own internal misery. One thing he was cognizant of though was Roach. Even in death though, this one thing remained constant. Roach continued to plod along, just as reliable in the afterlife as she had been in the time they’d traveled together in life. He almost wished she weren’t here. She deserved better than hell. 

The world around him was a blur of pain and exhaustion as they continued through the woods. His vision had long since gone out of focus. He could barely make out the trees which sped past as Roach hurried along the path. He wanted to close his eyes, to shut all of this out and to rid himself of the nauseating blur of his surroundings. Something in the back of his mind warned him not to though. He needed to stay awake for something. For what? Surely there was nothing he needed to be conscious for—he was dead after all—why couldn’t he shut his eyes and get rid of at least a little bit of the agony which plagued him. Even so, he kept them open. Whatever it was he was staying awake for, he felt like it was important. It must be if he’d kept himself going for this long. 

Other than Roach, the few things he was aware of were uncomfortable to say the least. There was a hot, heavy, weight against his chest. It was impossible to tell what it was exactly, but it made breathing difficult, his inhalations limited by whatever was laying against him. This must be just one more layer to his torment here. It felt as if he was perpetually out of breath even though the only energy he was exerting was what it took to keep himself upright and in the saddle. If he really focused on blocking out the pain, he could feel his lips tingling due to his restricted air supply. How funny it would be if he did all this work to ignore the pain enough to stay conscious only to be taken out by the simple matter of not having enough oxygen. Part of him wished this would happen. At least then it wouldn’t be due to anything he could stop it. Then he would finally be able to stop fighting against this all encompassing pain. Would it be like this forever? Or would he learn to ignore it after a while. After all, he would be here for eternity. 

It wasn’t until Roach’s rhythmic steps came to an abrupt halt that his assuredness about being in hell wavered. He hadn’t told her to stop. What destination could they have reached? 

He squinted, working hard to get his vision to come back into focus. The pain radiating from his leg and through his body hit him full force as he pulled himself out of the half conscious stupor he’d been in before. The reality of the situation hit him as well, along with a heavy dose of panic—not only for the current situation, but also for all the things which could have gone wrong when he’d allowed himself to lose track of what was really going on. He wasn’t in hell, he was on the path to Melitele’s Temple, and the heavy weight against his chest wasn’t some form of eternal torment, it was Jaskier, unconscious and unmoving. Gods, was the bard even still alive? How long had Geralt been out of it? Before he had a chance to check and see if Jaskier was okay—or as okay as someone in his state could be—he was being pulled out of the saddle. 

Geralt was nearly pulled out as well, unintentionally, until they realized the two were tied together. The Witcher was aware of yelling, and he could sense there were quite a few people surrounding him and Jaskier, but he couldn’t make out words or faces. He was ready to pass out from relief, knowing that—for better or for worse—his mission to deliver Jaskier here was complete. There was nothing left to stay awake for. He could finally let the pain swallow him completely. 

He didn’t though, not quite yet. The small bit of reason left in the back of his mind told him that it would be pathetic to break his neck falling off of Roach’s back after all the pain and torment he’d endured for who knows how long to get here. He had to hold on for just a few more minutes. 

He was aware of Jaskier being untied and pulled off of him, waiting for someone to come for him as well. As much as it pained him to admit it, he knew he couldn’t move on his own anymore. That luxury was long gone. 

Sure enough though, a few moments after Jaskier was taken from the saddle he felt hands come back to retrieve him. Many hands. He was aware that the weight of a Witcher was a lot to carry, but he trusted the women of Melitele’s Temple to bear it. It wasn’t until they pulled him out of the saddle that he realized Roach was kneeling. He could have collapsed already and no harm would have come of it. He’d been holding out for nothing. This realization along with the pain which accompanied being moved and carried was enough to push him over the edge. The last thing he was aware of was the cacophony of concerned voices and myriad of sturdy hands which surrounded him as he was lifted up and carried into the temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!


	15. Chapter 15

Geralt woke confused and disoriented. He was unsure of where he was or how long he’d been out. It took almost a full minute for the events of the previous day to come back to him—for him to remember he was at Melitele’s Temple, and to remember he was gravely injured. Well, that part didn’t require much recollection; the pain was enough to let him know he’d been hurt badly. Remembering what it had been like before he’d fallen unconscious made him realize how much he must have healed while he was asleep. He was still hurting, yes, but much less so than he had been when riding Roach on his way here. No, not his way here—their way here. Jaskier. 

The bard had been much worse off than him, burning up with fever, knocked out by Mera’s painkiller concoction. The fact that there was nobody sitting at Geralt’s bedside wasn’t a good sign. They must be attending to him. 

Geralt did his best to just focus on his breathing, compartmentalize his pain, maybe even go back to sleep. Despite his best efforts he couldn’t keep his mind off Jaskier. Was he okay? Was he conscious? Was he even alive? Surely they would have come and woken him if Jaskier died. Wouldn’t they? He was in pretty bad shape too though. He couldn’t convince himself they wouldn’t let him sleep through his friend’s death to avoid compromising his own recovery. 

He strained his ears, trying to listen past the walls of his own room—to see if he could make out Jaskier’s voice, his breathing, his heartbeat, anything. But the walls were too thick and the temple was too full of other noises for Geralt to make out anything helpful. 

By the time Nenneke entered his room, he felt like his worry was going to drive him mad. 

“Geralt, I didn’t expect you to wake so soon.” 

He had no way of knowing what time it was or how much time had passed since he’d woken up, but he suspected it had been nearly an hour since he’d regained consciousness. 

“Hmm.” 

She seemed concerned and agitated—surely having spent the whole night tending to him and Jaskier.

“You delivered yourself in quite a state yesterday,” she said, approaching the bedside and lifting up the blankets to examine his bandages. 

He’d delivered himself? He’d brought both of them here. What about Jaskier? Why wasn’t she saying anything about Jaskier?

“The bard too,” she added, as if able to read his mind. 

“How is he?” Geralt asked, unable to contain his worry any longer. 

Nenneke pursed her lips, turning her back to him to retrieve something from the dresser up against the far wall. 

Geralt knew she wouldn’t lie to him, but he also knew it would pain her to be the bearer of bad news. 

“We haven’t been able to wake him,” she said once she turned to face him again. “We’re treating the infection and keeping the wound clean, but the fever hasn’t broken.” 

Geralt sighed, laying his head back on the pillow and pressing his eyes shut. 

“We’re doing everything we can, but you brought him here in bad shape, Geralt.” 

He was aware. He didn’t need reminding. 

“How long was I out? I gave him something to knock him out while we traveled here. It was strong,” he said, trying to convince himself just as much as Nenneke. 

“You arrived yesterday evening, and slept through the night. It’s midmorning now.” 

Geralt had given him enough to knock him out for a full day, maybe two, but with the high fever he would be burning through it quicker than normal. If he was going to wake up on his own, he should have done it by now. 

“It doesn’t mean anything, Geralt. He’s got plenty of time,” Nenneke said. She could surely see he was worrying. “I didn’t even expect you to be up yet after the day you had yesterday.” She began unwrapping his bandages to examine his wound. “Are you going to explain what happened?” 

“Venomous Arachasae,” he stated. “I saw a healer in the town where it happened. She got enough venom out to keep me from dying, but there’s still enough left to keep the wound from healing property. We were working on flushing out the venom and managing the pain before…” he trailed off. The last thing he wanted to do was explain everything which had happened. He was honestly still a little confused about what had happened himself, and there were a lot of emotions tied up in that story. He was afraid Jaskier wasn’t going to heal, but he was also angry at the bard for keeping his injury a secret. 

Nenneke was looking at him expectantly though, and he knew she wouldn’t let him keep the story from her, especially if he expected her to tend to them. So he reluctantly began to delve into the whole story of what had happened, going all the way back to the Arachasae attack which had happened several days ago by now. 

“So Jaskier’s wound wasn’t exposed to the venom?” she asked, once he’d finished. 

“Not that I know of,” he replied, “but I was unconscious for a long while after the attack happened. I’m not sure what all happened during that time.” 

Had she even been listening? The whole reason they were in this mess was because Jaskier hadn’t told Geralt what was going on. He could have drank the Arachasae venom for all Geralt knew. He hadn’t even figured out Jaskier was hurt until two days after the fact. 

“So what are you going to do?” Geralt asked. “About Jaskier.” 

She gave him that pursed lip look again. He knew there was little that could be done at this point—they just needed to tend to him and keep him comfortable and clean while they waited for the fever to break. 

“For now you need to focus on yourself. You’re not well enough to be worrying about other people.” 

This may be true, but nothing could keep him from worrying at this point. 

“Leave Jaskier to me. I’ll let you know if anything happens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm busy enough now that I can justify writing fanfic during my down time at work. So I guess this chapter is brought to you in part by the sandwich shop which pays me minimum wage to do a whole lot of standing around because nobody is getting food from a mall food court in the middle of a pandemic. 
> 
> I also wrote some of this while listening to my Spanish lecture for today. 10/10 student and 10/10 employee.


	16. Chapter 16

Nenneke healed with a gentler touch than Mera, but not by much. Her hands evened out the terrible lows of the pain of Geralt’s injury, and the dizzying high of the painkiller, settling the Witcher into a miserable, but manageable medium. 

Unfortunately for her, Nenneke was one of the very small chosen few who Geralt respected enough, and was comfortable enough with to complain in front of. She didn’t spend much time in his room, opting instead to watch over Jaskier who was in a much more critical condition than the Witcher, but when she did come in to check in on Geralt, he was quick to voice his discomfort. 

“I’m fine to get up Nenneke. I don’t need to lay around all day.” 

He’d been at the temple for two full days now, and after draining about a bucket’s worth of black liquid from his leg wound, it was still sore, but he felt confident in his ability to get around with a crutch. And even if he didn’t, he’d still try to convince Nenneke he could. He desperately wanted to see Jaskier. 

Nenneke’s updates were plentiful, but a bit lacking in detail. Each time he asked, Geralt was met with a similar and dissatisfying answer. They were doing everything they could, keeping him comfortable, trying to regulate his body temperature, and making sure his wound was clean, but the infection was persistent. He still hadn’t woken, and the fever refused to break. 

The updates were so dissatisfying partly due to the fact that Nenneke’s senses couldn’t pick up everything Geralt’s could, but he suspected there was more to it. Nenneke didn’t hold back while healing, yes, and sometimes that involved a little pain, but Geralt could tell she didn’t enjoy hurting him on purpose. He suspected she thought the truth would upset him, so the information she gave remained vague and unhelpful. 

“Please, I just want to see him for a couple of minutes.” 

It reminded Geralt of when he was a young boy at Kaer Morhen, before life had beaten him down enough to keep him from asking his caretakers for the things he wanted. 

Nenneke didn’t answer, pursing her lips and setting a tray of food on the table next to Geralt’s bed. 

“You shouldn’t even think about doing anything until you’ve eaten,” she said in an obvious attempt to change the subject in order to avoid directly telling Geralt what to do. 

He didn’t want to eat. He felt lethargic and achy and nauseous. He’d feel much more willing to eat if he were able to do something, anything, to work up some semblance of an appetite. 

“If I was able to get myself all the way here. I should be trusted to get myself to Jaskier’s room,” he argued. 

“With the state you were in when you arrived here, you should count yourself lucky I even trust you to feed yourself,” she snapped. 

Now it was his turn to not respond, opting instead to give her the most pointed glare he could manage without feeling guilty. 

“Now eat your food before I decide I don’t trust you to do that anymore either.” 

***

For as much time as Geralt had spent at Melitele’s Temple, and as much time as he spent with Jaskier, Nenneke figured by now she’d know the bard better, but as she tended to him she was struck by just how little she knew about him apart from his public persona. 

Even without knowing him personally, she’d spent enough time healing to know he wasn’t doing well. As soon as she thought the fever was under control it would spike again. When he and Geralt had arrived she’d thought he was dead. His body had been completely motionless, limp as they carried him into the temple. The only sign of life coming from him had been the heat radiating from his skin. She’d felt temporarily reassured after she realized he’d been sedated, but once enough time elapsed that whatever Geralt had given him must have worn off, the worry descended upon her again. 

She wished she knew more of what had happened to him. It may not help much in the long run, but it would help negate the feeling of helplessness which nagged at her due to her utter lack of information. Unfortunately for both of them, Geralt had been unconscious for the most critical hours of care right after they’d arrived, and even once he woke up, he knew almost as little as she did about his companion’s injury. 

However he’d sustained the injury though, it was clear the wound was infected. By the time Nenneke got to him, he looked like he’d been fighting against the infection for a few days already. Fighting and losing. 

Geralt understandably wanted to see him. Still, she worried seeing his companion in the state the bard was in now would hinder Geralt’s own healing. For as lost she felt tending to Jaskier, she was equally as comfortable caring for Geralt. She knew him well enough to be able to tell he wasn’t nearly as well as he said he was—even after two days of healing, which was probably more like a week for the Witcher. 

He painted himself as unfeeling and much more physically resilient than he was, but Nenneke could see through his stubborn ruse. Seeing Jaskier the way he was now would devastate him, she was certain, even if he’d never admit it. He needed time to heal on his own without the stress of watching his friend unconscious, fighting for his life. 

If Jaskier woke up then it would be another matter, but the bard remained stubbornly unconscious, shaking and sweating as he fought against the infection. She wanted to keep Geralt away until Jaskier could reassure his friend himself, but a part of her feared he might never wake up. Would she go get Geralt to say goodbye if it seemed like he was really reaching his end? How could she ever make that call? How could she bear to face him if she got it wrong? 

All of these thoughts ran through her mind as she sat at Jaskier’s bedside, willing, and praying for the fever to break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new point of view has entered the chat. How many people can I torture at once?
> 
> You wanted plot?? Hmm, sorry. No plot.


	17. Chapter 17

Jaskier woke in the middle of the night. He was laying in what felt like a bed, but he had no recollection of being brought here. The last thing he remembered was being ill in the middle of the woods, Geralt on the ground beside him. This however, was decidedly not the woods, and Geralt was no longer here with him. Fear began to wash over him. 

The room was dark. He could make out nothing other than ambiguous shadows looming over him. As his anxiety heightened, he could feel his heart rate climbing, his breath coming too fast. As he fought to catch his breath, panic descending on him, he was met with stabbing pains in his chest. It made him unable to inhale fully, and this combined with the fact that he was laying flat on his back made him feel as if he was drowning. 

A strangled cry escaped his lips, scraping against his throat like rough sand. He didn’t know what it could achieve—he seemed to be completely alone, helpless—but it must have roused someone nearby because moments later the door was being flung open. A person entered, scrambling to light the lamp while someone behind them rushed to the bedside. 

He winced at the lamplight. Now that he could see, it was much easier to tell how badly the room was spinning. He wanted to go back to sleep. This pain would be enough to knock him out soon enough. It had to be. 

Voices were speaking now, much too loudly for the middle of the night. He couldn’t tell if they were talking to him; the words were lost, far too mangled by the time they reached his ears to be comprehensible. He could tell they were concerned though, which didn’t help his panic in the slightest. 

The outer skin on his chest burned and his lungs felt like they were on fire, desperate for air that he couldn’t force into them. He could feel people working on him, stripping off blankets and unwrapping bandages, but already his vision was too blurry to make out much of anything. Through all of this mess of uncertainty though, one thought remained in his mind—clear and persistent—this was it. Jaskier was dying. 

***

After faithfully sitting at his bedside for the entire night, of course Jaskier would wake for the first time in three days during the two minutes she left to fetch some water. 

She returned to find him groaning and writhing in pain. One of the girls who lived here at the temple woke as well when she heard him cry out. Together the two of them descended upon him, working quickly to try and diminish the bard’s pain. 

Although he was very clearly conscious—his muscles spasming, the frantic silence of the room punctuated by pained noises which even made Nenneke cringe—she doubted how lucid he was. Right now she made no effort to communicate with him other than calm reassurances which she had no doubt fell on deaf ears. The most important thing now was to get his pain under control. 

When she first realized he was awake, she’d hoped this meant his fever had broken. No such luck. It was spiking again. Even so, she had faith that fact he was conscious at all meant he was healing. 

The fever had been stubborn during the whole time he’d been here. Now was not the time to deal with this. In this moment the most important thing was to manage his pain. 

“You’re okay. It’s alright. Everything is going to be okay.” The probability he could hear her and understand her was low, but if there was even a chance this could help put him at ease, she would do it. “I know it hurts. I’m here to help you.” 

He gritted his teeth, his eyes rolling back into his skull. 

Nenneke and the younger girl made quick work of cutting the bandages from his chest. They’d been changing them often, but they were still stuck to his skin as the wound tried it’s best to scab over while also expelling any infectants from his body. 

She wet them, doing her best to loosen them before pulling them off and applying a salve which would hopefully help numb the skin around the gash. 

After the salve was applied and new bandages wrapped around his ribcage, she gave him something by mouth to help manage his pain as well. It was risky to try and get him to drink something in his state, but he was awake, and this should work much faster than something applied to the skin. 

Again she was struck by how little she knew about this man. She’d been putting Geralt back together after disastrous monster encounters for years now. She could tell how he was feeling from the look in his eyes and the muscle tension in his face. She was familiar with how fast his heart should beat, how labored his breathing could get before she should worry. Most importantly, she knew how much pain he could handle. 

Luckily, the painkiller she gave him seemed to work. His body relaxed, but he didn’t fall back into unconsciousness. Despite waiting almost three full days for him to wake up, she still hoped he would go back to sleep. 

Now that the pain was gone though, she realized what might be a much more concerning problem. She’d thought the pain had been the reason he was so short of breath, but even now with his muscles relaxed, Jaskier couldn’t seem to manage a full breath in. How long had it been since the infection had reached his lungs? She refused to let herself get discouraged. 

It was likely that the infection had been in his lungs ever since he’d gotten here. The sedation had helped, but now that he was aware enough to feel out of breath the panic was likely to lead to a steep downward spiral. 

She propped him up so he wasn’t flat on his back and tried to coax some water into him. She kept reassuring him that everything was going to be alright as she settled back down in her seat at his bedside. This was surely going to be a long night for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can have a little plot, as a treat.   
> Getting some flashbacks to Through the Long Night.   
> I promise there will be more drama soon.


	18. Chapter 18

Geralt knew something was wrong the moment he woke. He could tell from the light streaming through the window that it was late morning, yet nobody had been in to rouse him or check in. The whole temple felt eerily quiet. Perhaps there was something else going on, but Geralt felt deep down this was something to do with Jaskier. 

He debated for a few moments before pulling the bed covers off, knowing Nenneke would want him to stay put. He knew himself well enough to know he could handle this though, and even if he wasn’t, his concern was winning out over his common sense at the moment. 

He climbed out of bed gingerly, doing his best to manage the pain his movements brought. His muscles were stiff from lack of use, and his leg ached viciously. It was better than he expected though, and without putting too much weight on his bad leg, he was able to walk with a barely noticeable limp. 

Making his way down the hall silently, he listened closely to try and figure out where Jaskier was at. He must not be far if Nenneke had been tending to both of them at once. 

Sure enough, two doors down across the hall he heard it—Jaskier’s all too familiar heartbeat. It was weak, far too fast, and undeniably his.

He stood outside the door for a moment, hoping he might hear something to dispel his fears. Jaskier was alive, his heart beat and his breath continued to come in shallow, inconsistent intervals. No other signs of life came from him. He could hear the steady presence of Nenneke as well, no doubt sat watching over him at his bedside. Other than that, no sound came from Jaskier’s room. 

A knot formed in Geralt’s stomach as he reached for the doorknob, afraid of what he might find inside. He swallowed down the fear and grasped the doorknob, pushing the door open before he could hesitate again. 

Nenneke looked displeased to see Geralt up, but she didn’t stop him from approaching the bedside. Jaskier looked so much worse than when he’d seen him last in the forest three days ago. His cheeks were sunken, his face a sickly grey apart from the bright flush which sat atop his cheekbones. 

“What’s happened?” he asked, so quiet he thought for a moment Nenneke hadn’t heard him. 

She had him sitting up, propped up on some pillows, but Geralt could tell without moving him that his body was completely limp. 

“It’s the infection,” Nenneke responded. “He woke up last night when the fever spiked.” 

Geralt swallowed hard. 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” 

Nenneke looked at him with a pained expression. 

“You needed to rest.” 

That had been her excuse for days now. It was getting old. 

“How long was he up for?” Geralt asked. How much had he missed? 

“Only a few minutes,” she replied. “And he wasn’t responsive even when he was conscious.” 

No doubt delirious with fever and pain. He could tell it hurt her to tell him this, but he was grateful to be given the truth. 

“So what now?” 

“Well, a fever will get worse before it gets better,” she said. “I think this is the worst it’s going to get.” 

Her meaning was clear. Either Jaskier would make it through this and the fever would break, or he would die. 

Geralt tried to reassure himself that Jaskier was strong. He’d proven time and time again how resilient he could be. Geralt had seen his friend overcome huge obstacles powered solely by sheer willpower and spite. 

He wished this was enough to convince him this might not be the end. 

***  
Nenneke’s heart sank when she saw Geralt standing in the doorway. 

Her initial response was to kick him out, tell him to go back to bed, but she stopped herself. She couldn’t keep him away forever. Jaskier had reached a crossroads now. If things were to go poorly, Geralt deserved to be here for the end. Jaskier deserved to have a friend by his side. 

Anyway, if Geralt really didn’t want to leave, there would be nothing Nenneke could do to stop him, and the look on his face as he took in the sight of his sick friend told her nothing could tear him from Jaskier’s side now. 

So instead of sending him off, she answered his questions and offered him a chair, sitting down next to him ready to fulfill her role as a caretaker, physical or emotional, as the two of them waited for a change in Jaskier’s condition, for better or for worse. 

The two of them sat in silence for several hours as they waited for the fever to break. She couldn’t help but notice how exhausted Geralt looked, still troubled by his own injury and now taking on the emotional weight of Jaskier’s. 

After a long while with no change in the bard’s condition, Nenneke wanted to encourage Geralt to go and get some food, or try and sleep for a few hours, but when Jaskier murmured Geralt’s name in his sleep she knew this would be a lost cause. The two of them were tied together by fate somehow. Even in the throes of sickness and injury, something in the bard called out for his Withcer. Was he calling out for Geralt to save him somehow? Or did he just want the comfort which came with his presence. Whatever it was he needed Geralt seemed ready to provide.

Nenneke could see in the look in Geralt’s eyes, the determined set of his brow, that he wasn’t going to leave. He intended to be here right up until the very end. 

Every so often Jaskier would stir, and seem as if he might be waking again. Each time this happened Geralt would lean in close, ready to help his friend in any way he could, a flicker of hope behind his too tired eyes. It gave Nenneke hope too. She was prepared for the worst, yes, but Jaskier could still pull through. The fever could break at any time and he might start getting better. Right now they just had to wait and see. It was in Jaskier’s hands now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! You suckers thought you were getting plot. Lmao, no plot for you. Only sadness.


	19. Chapter 19

The first thing Jaskier became aware of as he woke was how thirsty he was. His throat felt as if it had been coated in sand left out for days in the desert, or maybe set out before a burning flame. As he opened his eyes, trying to sit up a bit, he discovered the source of the flame. His chest still burned under the thin fabric of his bandages. It felt as if he’d been asleep for weeks, years maybe, how had the wound not healed after all this time? 

He couldn’t worry about this now though. In this moment the thing he needed most was water. He did his best to scan the room without moving, hoping to find a cup or jug of water. There was something on the table next to him, but he knew he’d be unable to reach. He was already commiserating the sad irony of his fate to die of dehydration two feet from a cup of water when he looked to the other side of his bed and found the next best thing. 

“Geralt,” he rasped, his voice nearly inaudible.

The Witcher was sleeping, and Jaskier thought for sure his quiet call for help would go unnoticed, but this was somehow enough to rouse him. 

Jaskier couldn’t quite place the look on Geralt’s face as he realized what had woken him. Relief? Concern? Disbelief? A combination of the three? Whatever it was, he didn’t let him overtake him. For this Jaskier was immensely grateful, because he was growing more desperate for something to sate his thirst with every passing second. 

Geralt rose from the armchair he’d been sleeping in and came right up to Jaskier’s bedside. 

“What do you need?” He asked, his voice gruff, but filled with genuine concern. 

“Water,” Jaskier breathed, “please.” 

***

When Geralt woke to the sound of Jaskier’s voice, he was convinced he was dreaming. It had been days since Jaskier was conscious, and when he’d gone to sleep Jaskier had still been burning with fever. So when he opened his eyes to see Jaskier looking back at him, the wave of relief which washed over him. 

He rose to his feet without thinking, letting them take him right up to the edge of the bed. 

“What do you need?” 

“Water. Please.” 

Geralt could have guessed this solely from the state of Jaskier’s voice. The sweet melodic tones of the bard’s normal speaking voice had been replaced by a pained croak. It made Geralt’s own throat dry just to hear it. 

He walked to the other side of the bed, pouring Jaskier a cup of water from the jug, lifting it to his lips himself, afraid Jaskier might not be strong enough. 

He drank eagerly, emptying the cup in a matter of seconds. He then drank two more in quick succession. Geralt knew this might not be what Nenneke would do, worried he might not be able to keep it down, but the thought of denying him now was too painful to consider, so Geralt gave in to his requests without hesitation. 

He could feel through the bandages that Jaskier’s wound still radiated heat, but throughout his body the fever seemed to be gone. He breathed a sigh of relief, not realizing just how afraid he’d been until the worst of it was behind him. 

“How do you feel?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier took a moment to answer. No doubt he felt completely wiped out, and probably still in a lot of pain as well, but he said none of these things, instead surprising Geralt by answering, “Absolutely famished.” 

***  
When Geralt found Nenneke to tell her Jaskier was awake and hungry, she did her best to mask her feelings of surprise and relief. Jaskier had been unconscious for a long while, with a temperature much too high. The odds of him waking up were slim—much slimmer than she’d ever let Geralt believe—so to hear he was not only awake, but lucid and coherent, was near miraculous. 

“Now that he’s awake, will you finally go and rest?” She asked, acting like this whole situation was much more causal than it was. Geralt didn’t need excitement right now though, he needed to sleep. He’d been worrying himself half to death over his bard. Maybe now that he finally seemed through with the worst of the infection Geralt could relax enough to finish healing his own wound. His leg was much better, but she could see it still pained him in the way he favored it as he walked. 

She was shocked at how much Geralt had let the bard’s condition affect his own. Perhaps she was wrong, and the wound was worse than it had seemed—lord knows it had seemed pretty gruesome—but he normally healed faster than this. By his count nearly a week had passed since he’d sustained it and it still hadn’t even closed yet. He’d regained much of his mobility with the use of tight bandaging and, she was sure, sheer willpower and spite, but shouldn’t he be farther along by now? After all, the wound was still open, still vulnerable to infection. Neither of the boys were out of the woods just yet. 

Only these two, Nenneke thought, could bring themselves both to the brink of death over one planned encounter with a single monster. Surely Vesemir had not trained him to be so careless. She sighed inwardly, wondering if it was even worth it to lecture Geralt over this. It wasn’t wholly his fault, the bard deserved at least equal blame. They cared about each other and it made them stupid. Hopefully they could at least learn from this experience. If they couldn’t, then they were much stupider than Nenneke would ever admit.

She thought back to the years she’d tended to Geralt when he’d traveled alone, much more solemn, but also much more taciturn. The bard might bring out a bit of foolishness in him, but perhaps it was almost worth it if it meant the Witcher wasn’t quite so lonely. Almost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they all lived happily ever after the end


	20. Chapter 20

Geralt slept for another twelve straight hours. As a Witcher, he was able to function on very little sleep, but he was also gifted with the ability to sleep deeply for long periods of time in order to heal. He didn’t often feel safe enough to spend so much time vulnerable, but now it seemed to do the trick. Ever since Jaskier fell ill, Geralt hadn’t been able to relax enough to fall into a true, deep, healing sleep, but now that he was confident Jaskier would pull through, he felt he could finally allow his guard down enough to fully heal. 

By the time he woke the wound on his leg felt considerably better. If he were on his own, right about now would be the time he’d be saying his goodbyes and moving on, but he wasn’t on his own. How was Jaskier? A part of him worried he might have gotten worse again, that the fever breaking and his waking up had been a fluke or the calm before a much greater storm. These were unfounded concerns though, and it would do him no good to dwell on them when he could just as easily confirm or deny them himself. 

Before he left his room though, he took the time to change the bandages on his leg, stopping to admire the wound’s progress. And about time too. For a while there it had felt like it would never heal, but this sleep had done him good. He’d be alright. 

Once it was redressed and Geralt was changed into a fresh set of clothes, he left his room to go find Jaskier. Before he had the chance to though, he ran into Nenneke. 

“Geralt, I was just coming in to check on you. I’m surprised to see you up and about.” 

“I’m doing well, Nenneke.” He wanted to ask about Jaskier, but she didn’t give him the chance. 

“And how’s that leg?” 

“It’s healing well. I just changed the bandages.” He knew his answers were unhelpful and repetitive, but he wasn’t in the mood for idle chat. He was antsy, eager to be doing something. He’d been out of commission for too long now. 

“I was just about to go check on Jaskier. How is he?” 

“He’s sleeping right now, but the fever seems to be staying away. He’ll be alright. I was actually meaning to speak with you about him. Do you want to sit down somewhere and we can have a chat?” 

His stomach dropped. Her tone suggested something dire was happening. What could she possibly need to say to him about Jaskier that warranted a sit down conversation? He gave her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she was just worried about his leg. Surely nothing else could be wrong, not now when things were finally starting to turn around.

“We can walk,” Geralt answered. “I need the exercise.” 

She pursed her lips. “Alright.” 

Geralt followed her down the hall and out into the crisp morning air, waiting for her to begin. 

“I asked Jaskier what happened,” she finally said. “I was wondering how you two ended in such a bad spot before you arrived here, when I’d previously thought you both too wise to get yourselves into such a dire situation.” 

Geralt felt his cheeks warm as she served him this backhanded insult. She was right though. Before this, Geralt too had thought himself past getting stuck in such close calls. 

“It took a lot of coaxing to get the whole story from him, but he said you didn’t know he was hurt.” 

This was true, but why did she make this fact sound so much like an accusation?

“So I’m just wondering how this escaped your notice?” she asked. “I always thought Witchers were supposed to be perceptive.” 

He didn’t like her implications—like this was somehow all his fault. 

“I was in a bad way too Nenneke,” he argued. “I nearly died. I didn’t even think him to have an injury which required perception.” He defended himself, throwing her words back at her. “It’s his fault for not telling me. We were at a healer’s. You can’t blame me for not caring for him. He could have gotten the attention he needed from her.” 

“But he didn’t, because you left,” she pointed out. 

“I left because I had faith my leg could make the journey. And it would have if the information I’d been working with was correct, and the journey had played out like it was supposed to.” 

Nenneke stopped walking, looking at him as if trying to make up her mind about something. 

“So you really had no idea anything was wrong?” she asked. 

“No.” 

He was annoyed now. Angry even. As she laid out the story for him it became clear who really was at fault. Both of their lives had been endangered by Jaskier. He had lied. Whether the lie was direct or indirect didn’t matter. He’d kept the whole picture from Geralt, and that had nearly cost them both their lives. How was Geralt supposed to deal with that? 

He knew what he was going to do. He’d been anxious to leave this morning, and he had every right to be. What was the point in waiting around for Jaskier if the bard had proven himself to be an untrustworthy traveling companion? He’d move on without him. Jaskier could finish his healing here and both of them would be safe. 

Nenneke seemed to sense his shift in mood. 

“You care about him,” she stated, trying to manage his anger. 

“I’m angry with him.” 

“I never said you couldn’t be both. What you do with that anger is what matters.” 

“I’m leaving,” Geralt said without taking another moment to consider his options. “Today.” 

Nenneke looked at him questioningly. “Jaskier’s not well enough to travel. He probably won’t be for another week at least.” 

“I’m going on my own Nenneke. I’ve been off the Path for too long. I can’t wait another week.” 

She all but rolled her eyes at him. They both knew this wasn’t the case. 

“At least wait until he wakes so you can tell him you’re going.” 

Geralt sighed. 

“Geralt,” she raised her eyebrows at him. “You owe him this at least.” 

“I’m giving him the same level of communication he gave me when he left Mera’s knowing he was ill.” 

“That’s childish.” 

“I have nothing to say to him, Nenneke.”

“Go then,” she replied, “but don’t expect to have my blessing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally figured out where I'm going with the rest of this story. We're no longer flying blind, folks, so buckle up.


	21. Chapter 21

Jaskier wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t. He refused. He wasn’t even sure what would happen. His lungs weren’t in the best shape right now, and letting himself dissolve into a sobbing mess promised to be painful, and possibly dangerous. 

Crying wasn’t worth it anyway. Geralt had clearly felt no emotional obligation toward him, so why should Jaskier waste his own emotional energy on him? He tried to logic himself out of his feelings, but it was quickly becoming clear this wouldn’t work. He felt tears stinging in the corners of his eyes, his throat tightening up as he did his best to swallow down a sob. 

Geralt was gone, and he’d left angry. Jaskier hated when Geralt was angry, especially when the anger was directed toward him. It didn’t happen often, and they’d always been able to work through it together before, but this time was different. This time Geralt hadn’t given him the chance to explain himself. 

He found himself getting angry at this injustice. Not so angry he didn’t want Geralt to come back though. 

“Do you need anything?” Nenneke asked from where she stood in the doorway. 

“I’m fine,” Jaskier lied. The only thing he wanted right now was some privacy, but he wasn’t sure how to ask that without sounding rude. 

To his great relief, Nenneke seemed to sense this. 

“Alright, well if you do need anything, I won’t be far.” 

***

Nenneke was fuming. She had known Geralt to do some pretty foolish things, but nothing so rash and discourteous as this. 

She had followed Geralt back inside as he went to gather his stuff, and tried to convince him he was being irrational, but it was no use. If Geralt could be relied on for anything it was his stubbornness. She’d admired him for it on many occasions, sticking to his beliefs, working past pain and injuries to do what needed to be done, but in this case she wished he were a little more persuadable. 

“And what are you going to do if this makes him worse? If this upsets him enough to affect his health. How would you feel about that?” 

She’d stared him down, standing in front of him in the doorway in a last ditch effort to keep him from going without talking to Jaskier first. 

“Jaskier is plenty strong enough. He’ll manage.” 

“Are you saying that because you believe it, or because you know you won’t be able to live with yourself if something bad happened to him because of you.” 

Then, for the first time all morning, she saw a flash of real pain behind his eyes. She’d gotten through to him—whether it was for better or for worse though, she wasn’t sure. 

“Something bad did happen to him because of me, Nenneke!” he had raised his voice then, finally letting go of the heartless act. “And he lied to me about it. If I can’t trust myself to keep him safe, and I can’t trust him to be honest with me then we have no business traveling together. Probably never should have in the first place.” 

Nenneke sucked in her breath in a quiet, astonished gasp. 

“Geralt,” she had said, softly, “you don’t mean that.” 

“I do.” 

He shut his mouth, the muscles in his jaw tensing visibly. 

“Now let me leave,” he demanded through gritted teeth. 

She moved then from the doorway, letting him pass. She wouldn’t follow him. He was too far past convincing. 

And this brought her to the present, in the room where he’d stayed, listening to Jaskier try his hardest to muffle his sobs from down the hall, cleaning up all the physical traces of his stay here, and wondering how she would deal with the emotional mess he’d left behind. 

***

Jaskier waited until he was alone to let himself fall apart. How could Geralt do this to him? Nenneke had told him he had left because he felt Jaskier had betrayed his trust by lying about being injured, and maybe he had, but if Geralt just gave him the chance to explain himself. 

Back at Mera’s he’d been so terrified of being left behind. In hindsight, yes, he’d made a bad decision lying to Geralt, but he’d done it for the right reasons. He was afraid Geralt would get hurt traveling injured by himself. He’d thought he was stronger. He thought they would be able to take care of each other. If he’d known how high the stakes really were, he would have acted differently. 

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Geralt didn’t want to travel with someone who wasn’t smart enough to make the right calls when it really mattered. 

After all, he hadn’t made the right call and ran for help when Geralt had gotten injured in the first place—he’d dragged him back to town himself, inciting the terrible sequence of events which brought him to where he was now. 

He thought back to other times in the past where he hadn’t known the right thing to do, or acted impulsively and gotten it wrong. 

The more he thought about his past mistakes, the more he understood where Geralt was coming from. It wasn’t just about lying. He was tired of traveling with someone who wasn’t smart enough to keep up with him. And could Jaskier really blame him?

He was crying in earnest now, loudly and messily, with tears streaming down his face. He wanted to bury his face in his pillow—he knew he was crying hard enough for other people in the temple to hear him now—but he was afraid he might suffocate. The pain in his chest was growing. He knew his lungs couldn’t keep up with crying like this for long, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry about that now. 

If he was going to cry until he passed out, so be it. In fact, that would be a welcome respite to these feelings. He’d rather be unconscious than to face the reality of what was happening to him now. That his friendship with Geralt might truly be over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all are enjoying this. I'm having a good time writing it. 
> 
> Also if any of you guys ever want to talk about the Witcher hmu, my tumblr is also reallooney


	22. Chapter 22

Geralt worried something might be wrong with Roach. She seemed unhappy and unfocused. At first he thought it might be because he was injured—she was good about sensing these things and adjusting her gait accordingly—but as their day of travel continued he realized this wasn’t the case. She kept looking down at the trail beside her and slowing down, reluctant to speed up even when Geralt urged her on. It got so troublesome that he finally relented and dismounted.

He did a thorough check of her whole body. Maybe something had happened to her at Melitele’s Temple. He hadn’t been the one caring for her after all. Maybe one of the stable workers there had made a mistake. 

He checked everything from her hooves to her teeth, looking for what could possibly be bothering her, but even after double checking he found nothing. She appeared to be in perfect health. A part of him wanted to stop, for fear of hurting her, but she didn’t seem to be in pain, just acting strange. He couldn’t afford to waste any time because of it, so he got back in the saddle. 

The strange behavior persisted for the rest of the day as they traveled on the path away from Melitele’s Temple. It wasn’t until he stopped to make camp for the night that Geralt finally understood what was going on. 

Even as he set up camp, all travel for the day over, Roach continued to look around as if she were searching for something. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. 

She was looking for Jaskier. 

They’d been traveling together for a long while at this point, and now he disappeared, to the best of understanding, without a trace. 

“He’s fine, Roach.” 

The words left a sour taste in his mouth. Jaskier probably wasn’t fine. He was upset at the very least. Geralt refused to dwell on how his actions might have affected Jaskier’s health.

Roach huffed indignantly, nosing him in the chest. 

“He’s not traveling with us anymore,” Geralt explained. 

Roach just looked at him expectantly. 

“He isn’t coming, Roach. Why can’t you understand that? This is how it’s going to be now.” 

He was surprised to feel his breath catch in his throat as he said it. He swallowed down the uncomfortable tight feeling in his throat. He wasn’t going to do this now. He wasn’t going to do this ever. It was just that he hadn’t really considered the whole situation until now. It hadn’t hit him that his days traveling with Jaskier were really over. 

It was okay though. This was what he wanted. This is what had to happen. 

He loved traveling with the bard, and he’d let that love distract him for too long. It had been a bad idea from the beginning. 

He hated that it took them both almost dying to realize it, but at least now the mistake was corrected. They both would be better off on their own. 

*** 

Jaskier had been right about crying not being a good idea. It took a long time for him to cry himself out, and by the time he finished, the pain in his chest had increased tenfold and he’d managed to reopen the wound on his ribcage. He could feel the blood seeping into the bandages, accompanied by the now all too familiar white hot stinging. He just wanted to rest. Didn’t he deserve that at least? 

No. If today had taught him anything, it was that he was entitled to nothing, especially not the things he thought he’d always have. 

He couldn’t even curl up under the covers and relax without feeling as if all the air was being squeezed from his lungs. He did his best to make himself comfortable half sitting up with his pillows propped up against the headboard, but it just wasn’t the same as collapsing onto his back and staring wistfully at the ceiling. With where the bed was positioned in the room there wasn’t even a window to look through. He’d have to make do staring wistfully at the door. 

All this staring seemed to work, because a few minutes later it opened, revealing Nenneke. She looked sympathetic, and as much as Jaskier wanted nothing more than to be alone right now, it was probably a good thing she was here. He could still feel the blood slowly saturating his bandages, and it had probably gotten to the point where he would start to worry, if he weren’t so far past worrying about these things. 

“How are you feeling?” Nenneke asked, sounding genuinely concerned. 

Her kind words were almost enough to push him back over the edge into tears. 

“I think my chest is bleeding again,” he said, his voice wavering as he avoided any talk of emotions or Geralt, or anything else that might betray him. 

“Can I take a look?” 

Nenneke was a talented caretaker in any circumstance, but Jaskier could tell she was being extra gentle with him now. 

He nodded, sitting up for her. 

She helped him remove his shirt before starting to unwrap the bandages. Sure enough, the blood had soaked almost all the way to the outermost layer. She didn’t reprimand him though, cleaning it and re-wrapping it with no further comments. 

“And how are those lungs feeling?” she asked.

“Oh, um, alright,” he replied, not wanting to sound whiny. Surely she must know how much they were hurting him after crying like that. 

“I have some herbs which might help,” she offered. “They might make you a bit sleepy though.” 

The way she said it let him know she knew this was what he wanted. 

“That would be lovely,” he answered, looking up at her from where he was once again reclined back on his pile of pillows. 

She gave him a small, sad smile. 

“I’ll go fetch them.” 

Hopefully they worked as she said they would. He would like to sleep for a long while. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so heartbroken by the time he woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roach and Nenneke proving once again that they are the only two characters in this story with any brain cells.


	23. Part Two: The Banquet

Autumn

Things weren’t going well for Geralt. In the past month traveling on his own since leaving Melitele’s Temple he hadn’t gotten a single good night of sleep. 

Even as he regained full use of his injured leg, it was slow to heal fully, and it caused him a lot of pain. If this wasn’t enough to keep him up at night, the nightmares would be. 

Vivid scenes of Jaskier, injured, suffering, dying. Sometimes it was in the valley, killed by venomous arachasae, other times in the woods, burning up with fever. Most of the time though, it was at Melitele’s Temple succumbing to the sickness and injury he’d fallen victim to because of Geralt. 

No matter the scenario, Geralt woke up in a cold sweat, breathing too quickly and caring too much for the bard he’d left behind. 

Each time, when the morning came he put these nightmares behind him. Jaskier was fine, and thinking of him wouldn’t do either of them any good. Lucky for him, he had enough misfortune in his waking hours to keep him distracted. 

He took his first contract a week after leaving Melitele’s Temple. It was too soon. His leg was still in pretty bad shape, but he was desperate for a distraction. And he was starting to get a little low on coin. Before, when he’d been put out of commission by injury or burnout, they’d always been able to rely on Jaskier to rustle up a crowd in some tavern and put on a good show. It had been the difference between sleeping in a bed and sleeping in the woods on several occasions. Geralt didn’t realize how much he relied on this safety net until it was pulled out from under him. 

No. 

It wasn’t pulled out from under him, he’d gotten rid of it himself. Because he didn’t need it.   
Because it was keeping him from being the most effective version of himself.

Needless to say, the first contract went poorly. 

It was a griffin, nothing he hadn’t gone up against before, but the fight went a lot less smoothly than it should have for someone with his knowledge and experience. He’d been able to walk away unscathed, but only barely. It was a good thing he did though, because he wasn’t sure his body could handle another injury. Even with the wound fully closed up, the fight with the griffin left him drained. He spent the next two days in bed afterward, feeling sick and miserable, at the mercy of the pain in his leg which was again almost as bad as it had been back at Melitele’s Temple. Most of the coin he earned from the contract ended up spent on the extra nights in the inn until he was able to get back on his feet. 

It had been a miserable time, but Geralt hadn’t thought much of it. He just got back on the road and tried to tell himself the worst was behind him. 

The nightmares didn’t go anywhere. 

He thought this might be why he was so dead tired all the time, but after awhile, growing more and more tired with each passing day, he started to think that there might be something else wrong. 

He didn’t figure out the pattern until after the second contract. 

Two weeks out from Melitele’s Temple he took a contract for a pack of harpies. 

Unlike the fight with the griffin, this time Geralt wasn’t so lucky to walk away unharmed. 

Everywhere they were able to get past his armor was cut to ribbons. He was a mess of blood and feathers by the time he finished off the last of the harpies, and a part of him wanted to just lay on the ground and give up. But of course, this wouldn’t do. He once again hauled himself back up onto Roach and into town. 

Once he was cleaned up though, he was able to see the cuts were superficial, barely more than scratches, and while they were abundant, they wouldn’t cause him any real harm. So then why did he feel so miserable? 

Harpies were filthy, yes, but the handful of scratches shouldn’t have put him in the state they did. Just like after the fight with the griffin he felt half dead and utterly miserable. His head ached, his whole body felt weak, and the pain in his leg once again threatened to leave him crippled and bedridden. Most concerning of all though, was the sickness. He couldn’t keep anything down for almost two days, and he tried to keep himself from getting dehydrated as he continued to throw up black bile. 

This was when it clicked. 

It wasn’t just the weakness from spending so long out of practice with his injured leg. It wasn’t just the pain of the injured muscle and sinew from the wound—it was more than that. It was venom. The arachasae venom was still in his system, still damaging him weeks after the beast was dead.

He was at a loss. 

How could he deal with something like this? Normally when he was faced with a wound he didn’t know how to treat he’d go to Nenneke, but he sensed that somehow this was no longer an option. And anyway, Jaskier might still be there recuperating, and if he was being honest, he’d rather succumb to the venom than face Jaskier now. 

This brought him to the present. 

He’d made it a month on his own, but he was getting sicker by the day. He didn’t take any more contracts after the harpies, afraid of what might happen if he pushed himself too far. It was like he was a stranger in his own body, unable to tell what might be too much for him to handle. Some days he felt almost okay. Others he was left bedridden by something as simple as walking for too long. He felt powerless, and worse than that, he had no clue how to fix it. 

So he just kept going, hoping it would somehow get better, ignoring the fact that it was only getting worse, running out of coin, and wondering if this was really what he deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can i say Geralt? Karma's a bitch.


	24. Chapter 24

Jaskier’s road to recovery was slow and difficult. His body had been damaged deeply by the infection, and his flesh by the wound. And his heart by Geralt. 

After his fever broke the first time it didn’t come back, but the harm it had caused his lungs still stuck around long after the infection was gone. The pain and weakness from this and the wound would have been enough to keep him bedridden even without how awful he felt emotionally. What was the point in healing if he had nothing to go back to once he was better? He could make a living traveling on his own as a bard, he could go teach at Oxenfurt, but from where he stood in the days after Geralt left none of these seemed good enough anymore. He’d created a good life for himself traveling with Geralt and that lifestyle had been stolen from him, along with his closest friend. Maybe it didn’t count as stealing though when the friend was the one to leave. Whatever it was, it hurt. 

He wasn’t sure if the ache in his chest was a leftover symptom of the infection, or if it was heartbreak, but it didn’t seem to be going anywhere. A new companion to replace the one he’d lost. 

He didn’t get out of bed for a full week after Geralt left, still wiped out from illness and injury, and heartbroken. He probably would have stayed in bed longer wallowing in his sadness and feeling sorry for himself, if it weren’t for Nenneke. She cared for him gently but firmly, letting him know that if he was going to stay, he’d need to be as invested in healing himself as she was in tending to him. 

This push was what he needed. Once he’d gained enough strength, he began going on walks daily with her. They were short at first, just out to the garden and back, but each day they went a bit farther. His energy drained quickly and his lungs couldn’t keep up with anything more than a slow stroll, but it did him good. The fresh air and exercise did wonders for his lungs, and the sunshine and company helped to heal the deep emotional wound his Witcher had left behind. Still, it was slow going. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever go back to the man he was before the Venomous Arachasae encounter. 

There were still nights when he cried until his chest ached, unable to get enough air in his still damaged lungs, unable to decide if the sadness or the pain would get him first. On those nights it felt as if he were drowning, too tired to pull himself up out of the water, unsure of who he’d be even if he did manage to get out. 

Without fail though, every morning Nenneke came to rouse him, reminding him the sun would still rise without Geralt, and anyways, Jaskier deserved better than someone who deserted him. 

It stung at first, but day by day he began to believe it. He relearned who he was on his own, and slowly accepted the fact that Nenneke was right. He deserved a happy life, and if Geralt didn’t want to be a part of it, then that was his fault. 

***

Nenneke found great pleasure in watching Jaskier heal. 

They had never gotten close the way she and Geralt were, but she’d met him on a few occasions before Geralt brought him here, sick and injured, and seeing him go from the sad, hurting man Geralt had left, back to the lively bard he’d been before, was incredibly satisfying. 

At first it seemed like he’d never get back to that place. With how upset he was after Geralt left she was worried he’d end up sick again. The crying was hard on his lungs and she knew how hard it was to heal somebody who had no will to get better. She’d need to work on keeping his spirits up as much as she did on keeping infection away. 

It was slow going, but as the days passed he regained not only his strength and energy, but also his spirit.

She remembered the first time she heard him sing again. It happened two weeks after Geralt left. She’d been cleaning when the melody from under the door of Jaskier’s room caught her attention. It was a sad song, his voice was rough, and Nenneke was sure he thought nobody was listening, but it was the first glimpse she got of the man he’d been before. 

By the time a month had passed, it was like he was a different person. There was still an edge of sadness to him, but he’d learned to cope with it. It was a part of him now, and she knew he’d end up a stronger man because of it. 

***

Once he was strong enough to spend time on his own out of bed, Jaskier spent a lot of his free hours out in the gardens. It was autumn now, but the beauty of the changing leaves and the fresh air was enough to make up for the chill. When the sun was out, Jaskier was comfortable enough bundled up in his cloak. He could almost pretend it was still summertime—that he hadn’t wasted the end of the best season of the year sick and despairing in bed. 

He knew the nice weather wouldn’t last for long though. Soon it would be winter again and the sun would disappear entirely. He needed to enjoy it while he still could. Today he was sitting in the grass, writing in his notebook, trying to think of something not quite so sorrowful to write a song about. He was about ready to give up when Nenneke came out. 

“There’s somebody here to see you, Jaskier,” she told him, “do you feel up for company?” 

He couldn’t imagine anybody wanting to see him now, or for that matter anyone knowing he was here in the first place, but his curiosity won out over his apprehension. 

“Of course, Nenneke,” he said. “Send them out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Company. I wonder who that could be. Hmmmm


	25. Chapter 25

Jaskier wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. It could be anyone. He had plenty of friends. Despite his attempts to talk himself out of his anxiety, the more he thought about it the more he feared talking to whoever had come to visit him. He feared talking to Geralt. And who else could it be? Who else knew he was here other than the Witcher? 

But no. Nenneke would have told him if it was Geralt. Wouldn’t she? Maybe not. She had known Geralt for much longer than she’d known him. If he asked her not to tell him, would she do it? 

His heart was beating faster now thinking about what he might say to Geralt. Would he tell him how upset he’d been? Would he ask Geralt to forgive him for lying all those weeks ago at Mera’s? Would he just tell him to leave? 

This whirlpool of conflicting emotions was starting to make his head spin, but a part of him couldn’t help but hope it really was Geralt here to see him. Or maybe he just wanted the old Geralt back, and the man who left Melitele’s Temple a month ago was not the man Jaskier missed. That person was gone. 

Jaskier had just decided he did want it to be Geralt visiting, just so he could tell him off, when Nenneke reappeared alongside a man who was decidedly not Geralt. 

“Adrien.” Jaskier tried his best not to sound surprised. It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy to see him, it was just so unexpected. 

“Jaskier,” Adrien greeted him. “Everyone’s been wondering where you’ve been.” 

Adrien de Rouleau was a fellow bard, and while he and Jaskier had met on many different occasions, he wasn’t sure if he’d consider him a friend. 

Jaskier wondered who “everyone” was, but he didn’t say anything. It was true he’d been missing for quite a bit now, but he hadn’t considered that people would notice. He must have garnered more fame than he’d thought. 

“How did you know I was here?” Jaskier asked, genuinely curious. 

“I didn’t,” Adrien answered, “I was just passing through town and I heard you were staying here. People have been wondering where you’d disappeared to, so I figured I’d come find out what was going on.” 

Jaskier had no desire to tell Adrien what was going on. 

“Where were you headed, passing through Ellander?” Jaskier asked, trying to keep the subject far away from his falling out with Geralt. 

“Aedirn,” Adrien answered, “to Vengerberg for the harvest festival.” 

The harvest festival in Vengerberg. Jaskier had attended it on several different occasions and had enjoyed it immensely each time. In fact, before all of the nasty business with the Arachasae, he’d been planning on attending again this year. 

“You should come with me,” Adrien suggested, as if reading his mind, “even if you don’t perform, everyone would love to see you.” 

His initial reaction would be to say no, but something stopped him. 

Why shouldn’t he go? Was he really going to let Geralt keep him here heartbroken and not moving on with the rest of his life. As much as he appreciated Nenneke, and loved this place, he couldn’t stay here forever. 

Why shouldn’t he go to Vengerberg for the harvest festival? It sounded like a good time, and Jaskier would be damned if he didn’t admit that after all he’d been through, he deserved a good time. 

***

Autumn was in full swing now. The changing leaves were beautiful, and the crisp air was a welcome change from the summer heat. As much as Geralt appreciated the change of seasons, he couldn’t help but feel as if Winter was hanging over him. Once he realized his health would no longer allow him to take contracts, his focus shifted to making it back to Kaer Morhen for the Winter. 

A part of him wondered if it might be better just to turn back and go spend the Winter at Melitele’s Temple. He would never have considered it when he’d been a bit stronger, and now as his health continued to deteriorate it became clear that, although this was probably the safest option for him, he’d waited too long and traveled too far to make the trip back in time. 

He’d made his way past the mountains now into Aedirn, and as Winter drew closer and closer he tried not to think of the daunting journey up north to Kaer Morhen. He had plenty of time to make it, but it was a rough trek even in the best of times. He wasn’t sure how his body would take to the cold—if he’d still be able to handle the long days of travel in such harsh conditions now that he no longer had his Witcher physicality to fall back on. 

“Jaskier has made the trip alright before,” a small voice in the back of his voice told him. 

Yes, but if Geralt was being honest with himself right now, the Jaskier who had traveled with him to Kaer Morhen in past years was probably in better shape than he was now, even without any added Witcher abilities. 

And anyway, he didn’t want to think of Jaskier now. He needed to focus on himself and figure out how he was going to make it all the way up to Kaer Morhen in his state. 

He would start the trip now, but he was running low on supplies, and he didn’t have enough coin to restock on everything he’d need to get himself to Kaer Morhen. 

He set up on the outskirts of a small town in Aedirn, trying to figure out how to solve this problem. He could go out and try to find a contract, but anything which would pay enough would wipe him out, if not kill him, and anything small enough for him to handle—if such a thing even existed anymore—wouldn’t give him enough to get supplies. He felt trapped. 

If he went on for much longer without some sort of solution he’d end up spending the rest of his coin just trying to keep himself and Roach from starving. At this rate, he might not make it until Winter even without trying to get up to Kaer Morhen. He held out hope that one of his brothers would pass through here on their way back home, but the odds of that were slim. He couldn’t rely on Eskel or Lambert to save him. 

He’d been a fool not to turn back and go spend the Winter at Melitele’s Temple, but now it was too late. And he feared he would have to pay the price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier in Vengerberg: Partying, having a great time.   
> Geralt two towns over: Dead.


	26. Chapter 26

As a Witcher, the list of things which might end Geralt’s life had always been a long one. Angry beasts and humans alike, inhospitable travel conditions, war, and the process of becoming a Witcher itself ranked high on the list, but if someone had asked Geralt what he thought would end him, at no point in his life would he ever have answered rain. 

It began as just a sprinkle, nothing he hadn’t dealt with before, but as the day wore on it grew to a drizzle which grew to a downpour. Geralt spent the day hunting and gathering near where he was camped outside the town. He tried to tell himself he could handle the rain. It might be uncomfortable, sure, but nothing he couldn’t grit his teeth and bear. The end of the day with it plummeting temperatures though, and he had to admit that he wouldn’t last long out in the weather like this. He should have come to this realization before he was soaked to the skin, but even now he still let his pride get in the way. He could no longer delude himself though. The sun was only barely beginning to set, but Geralt could sense that spending a night so cold and wet could have dire consequences. 

In fact, he could feel them already as he reluctantly trudged into town. He didn’t anticipate how quickly the change in weather would affect him, but it was as if the sickness was just waiting for something like this to latch onto. He swore he could feel the venom inside of him, taking a hold of his heart and lungs.

As a Witcher he was very in tune with his body. In tune enough to know his heart shouldn’t stutter like this. His lungs shouldn’t falter with every breath. 

In tune enough to know that these were the symptoms of a dying man. 

A deep ache penetrated all of his joints, and his bad leg threatened to buckle beneath him every few steps as he made his way down the roads too narrow for Roach to carry him. 

He had left her in the stables on the edge of town. He didn’t have much coin left, but he gave all he could to the stableboy, asking him to please take good care of her, telling him she was a fine horse, and she deserved only the best care. She deserved much better than this tiny stable could give her, but she would manage.

If he didn’t come back for her…

He refused to think of that, but still he spent a long while in the stable with her, petting her and telling her how much he had loved having her as a companion, how admirably she’d performed for him all these years. The air kept growing colder though, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay here forever. He needed somewhere which could provide him better shelter and warmth until this storm passed. 

“Goodnight Roach,” he said, stroking her neck one last time. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He couldn’t bear to consider that this might not be the case. 

Leaving the stable had a sense of finality to it, and he did his best to push down his sorrow as he walked further into town. He couldn’t afford sorrow now. 

By the time he made it to the inn he felt as if the cold rain had soaked him to the bone. 

“I need a room,” he grumbled to the innkeeper, trying to keep up his gruff, Witcher image even though he knew he must look awful. 

She told him the price, and even though he knew what it would be, his heart still fell. 

He dug in his pocket until he found it—his last coin. Tonight would be it. 

She took the coin, worlessly handing him a key. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice threatening to break on the words. 

The room was on the ground floor, his first stroke of luck in a long while because he was unsure if he’d be able to make it up a flight of stairs. 

When he got inside the small dingy room he wanted nothing more than to collapse on the bed, but the last rational part of his mind wouldn’t let him. He needed to get out of his wet clothes. Still, it was hard to find the energy. He resorted to treating himself as he might a child. 

“Okay Geralt, time to take off your armor.” 

“Okay Geralt, now you need to take off your wet clothes.” 

He couldn’t help but notice how similar this patient, caring voice in his head sounded to Jaskier’s. Thinking of Jaskier threatened to undo him. 

No, there were still things he needed to do. 

“Now it’s time to make a fire, Geralt.” 

There was a small hearth in the room. Geralt had to find his flint and steel. He could no longer conjure up enough energy to use Igni. 

Once the fire was lit he let himself collapse onto the bed. 

“Okay, Geralt…” 

But what now? There was nothing left to do. His fate was in destiny’s hands now. If it willed him to make it until morning then so be it, but if not. 

He told himself sleep would help. If he could fall asleep now, things wouldn’t be so dire. He would feel rested and he’d be able to come up with a plan in the morning. 

But as Geralt tried to ignore his pain enough to fall asleep, he found himself unable to shut off his mind. 

He thought about the mistakes he’d made, about how foolish he’d been, and how easily this could have been avoided. More than this though, he thought about who he might be leaving behind. 

Vesemir, who had always been like a father to him, raising him and caring for him as if he were his own. 

His brothers Lambert and Eskel, and all of the memories he had with them from when he was young, and from all of the winters they’d spent together at Kaer Morhen. 

Most of all though, he thought of Jaskier. 

Sweet Jaskier. 

He’d been cruel to him, and for what? To keep him safe? No. The only thing Geralt had been protecting by leaving was his own pride. 

He wished he could at least say goodbye, to tell them how sorry he was, and how much he would miss them, but he didn’t even have paper and pen to leave a letter. 

So Geralt did the only thing he could. 

He lay on the bed and wept, not worried that someone might hear—not worried about anything anymore. 

Just wishing he hadn’t made so many mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I almost cried writing this. That has NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE WHAT THE HECK


	27. Chapter 27

As an innkeeper, she had seen her fair share of horrors. Brawling patrons, rooms left in truly sickening states, once she even had a murder occur in the middle of the night, only to be found out when she went to clean the room the next day. 

Despite all of these things though, nothing had unsettled her more than the Witcher. She had heard tales before of the mysterious White Wolf, but nothing to prepare her for him showing up at her inn. 

She’d never seen any Witchers before, and she couldn’t help but wonder if this was what all Witchers were like, or if there was something wrong. 

He came in from the rain, soaking wet and looking quite imposing. He seemed to fill the whole doorway, blocking any of the little bit of light from outside as he came up to speak with her. As he approached though, she started to notice that things were off. 

He walked with a heavy limp, and his face was so pale it almost appeared to be gray. And when his fingers brushed hers as he took the key, it was like ice up against her skin. Surely this was not the way Witchers were supposed to be. 

She tried to put the thoughts out of her head. He’d only paid for a night. Soon enough he’d be gone from this place and just a strange memory in the back of her mind. He didn’t seem to want to cause any trouble. This was the same as any other guest. 

Somehow she was not convinced. 

It was this apprehension which brought her to the door of this room the next morning. 

It was common practice for her to rouse any guests before noon to have them either leave or pay for another night. Why should she treat the Witcher any different? 

She pounded on the door, giving the customary warning before standing back and waiting for a response.

None came. 

After a minute of waiting and listening at the door, she did it once more.

Again, she was met with no reply. 

Had he left already? Snuck out in the night? 

She reached for the door knob. If it was locked then she’d have to go back to her desk to get the key, but no, the knob was turning. Apparently the Witcher wasn’t worried about thieves, she thought to herself. 

As she opened the door and cautiously entered the room she realized why. 

The Witcher wasn’t worried about thieves because he had much bigger things to worry about. 

He lay on the bed, wrapped as fully in blankets as he could be with such a large frame, and apparently fast asleep. She didn’t notice until she walked closer that he was naked, a pile of wet clothes on the floor beside the bed. Every bit of exposed skin was the same pale, almost gray that his face had been last night. His lips were tinged with blue. 

Could he be? No. Witchers didn’t die in their sleep, they died in battle. Didn’t they? 

She walked a bit closer, listening for a heartbeat, a breath, anything. Nothing came. 

It wasn’t until she held her hand out in front of his parted lips that she realized he wasn’t dead. Not yet anyway. 

A healer. He needed a healer. 

And even if he was too far gone for help, then at least they would be able to deal with the body for her. Either way, she wanted this Witcher out of her inn. 

*** 

Geralt woke slowly. The first thing he was aware of was the cold. It seemed to penetrate him all the way to his very soul. 

It took a long time for his other senses to return. After touch came hearing. If only his mind was awake enough to interpret the sensory input.

After hearing came smell. A little more alert now, he sensed the scent of burning wood and lots of different herbs. Where was he? 

After smell taste. There was something lingering on the inside of his mouth—something sickly sweet, edged with bitterness. 

Last of all came sight.

Everything was a blur at first, for a long while it seemed, but slowly things began to come into focus. 

The room was well lit by a fire. It was small, with bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling and a window with enough light coming through it to tell him he’d made it until morning, perhaps even the afternoon. 

He was laying in a bed, but this wasn’t the bed he had fallen asleep in. Who had moved him? When had he been brought here? Where was he? How long ago had he fallen asleep? 

He couldn’t answer any of these questions, and it bothered him because this situation seemed to defy reason. 

He’d been dying, finally succumbing to the venom when he’d gotten to the inn. He had no money and no food. He’d purchased the room intending for it to be a warm place for him to die, but someone had brought him here. And they must have tended to him because at least for the moment, death seemed to be held at bay. 

Nobody was around to answer his questions though, and the room offered no more hints, so he spent the next long while checking in with his own body, trying to gather any more clues as to what had gone on while he was asleep. 

His leg was still in bad shape, that was for certain, but it had been this way for weeks now. It was the more recent symptoms which mattered. 

He was still as cold as he’d felt when he’d come in from the rain. It was hard to know, but it felt as if his internal body temperature was off. Whether it was too low or too high though, he couldn’t tell. 

Most important of all was his heart and lungs. He focused on his heartbeat, finding it slow and steady as it should be. His breathing came without his lungs faltering or causing him any pain. 

He must have been given medicine. But who could have done this? 

What stranger would feel compelled to bring a Witcher back from the brink of death? 

And how would he ever be able to repay them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should have left you guys hanging a little longer


	28. Chapter 28

He was unsure how long he laid there before somebody came in. His mind still didn’t feel fully present. Being in bed in the house of a stranger made him feel vulnerable. He wanted to get up and leave, but he needed to know what had happened. Who brought him here, and why did they save him?

Despite his utter lack of strength, he was about ready to get up and look for some answers by the time someone entered the room. 

“You’re awake.” 

It was a middle aged woman, with kind eyes and a soft countenance. She sounded surprised. 

“Who are you?” Geralt asked, surprised to hear his voice was almost non-existent. 

“Estrilda. I’m a healer.” 

She seemed to sense how uneasy he felt. 

“You’re safe here. I promise.” 

“How did I get here?” He still sounded wary. He cleared his throat, trying to get his voice back. “I was at the inn.” 

Estrilda sat down next to the bed, meeting his distrust with a sense of openness and vulnerability. 

“I know,” she answered. “The innkeeper sent for me. I think she thought I’d be acting as an undertaker, but I figured I should try healing first.” 

“And it worked? The healing.” 

“Well you’re here aren’t you?” 

She had a point. He still felt a little bit dead, but nothing like last night. If it had been last night. How long had he been here?

“What did you heal me of?” 

He had a feeling he knew what had happened, but he hoped he was wrong. How lucky would he have to be for her to have solved all his problems? 

“Pneumonia,” she said. “Things seemed pretty grim there for a minute. But what I gave you seemed to take pretty well.” 

That made sense. He internally reprimanded himself for staying out in the rain for so long, but if it was so bad to bring him all the way to death’s door then his body must have been fighting it for a while. 

“There’s something else going on though,” she continued. “I wasn’t able to figure it out.”

“Arachasae Venom.” 

She nodded. 

“That would make sense. So the wound on your leg then?” 

“Yes.” 

This was met with a long moment of silence. 

“So you said you healed me?” 

“From the pneumonia.” She trailed off. 

“But I’m a Witcher,” he said, “so how did I end up with pneumonia?” 

Even this small amount of talking was starting to hurt his throat. He was tired, and wanted to go back to sleep, but not more than that he wanted answers. 

“I thought that too,” she replied. “It’s most unusual. I’m not completely sure, but I’d say the venom weakened your immune system enough to make you susceptible to human illness,” she explained. 

“How do I keep it from happening again?” 

Now that he was no longer actively dying, he was back to trying to figure out how to survive the winter, and hopefully make it back to Kaer Morhen. He wouldn’t be able to do that very easily if he was susceptible to pneumonia. It had almost killed him in the rain. Imagine how easy it would be to succumb to it in the snow. 

“I’d say you have to deal with the root problem,” she answered. “The venom.” 

The venom. The bane of his dismal existence. 

“And how might I do that?” he asked, already preparing himself for the answer. He couldn’t. It would just keep getting worse until he caught some other human ailment, and if it didn’t, he’d continue to be in pain for the rest of his life. 

“How long ago were you bitten?” She surprised him by answering his question with one of her own. 

“About two months.” 

It felt like years had passed since the terrible day in the valley with Jaskier. 

“And it’s still ailing you.” She said it like a statement, not a question. 

She seemed to think for a moment. 

“How long did it take for the wound to close?” she asked. 

“A week,” he replied, “maybe two. But the leg is still weak. A lot weaker than it should be.” 

“Hmmm.” 

“So what do I do about it?” 

“Well,” she began. “You took well to the pneumonia treatment. That’s a good sign. It means your body is still strong enough to want to heal. But I think you’ll still be vulnerable to illness until you deal with the venom problem.” 

“So can you help me?” 

He was incredibly thankful to her for saving his life, but he feared she’d done all she could. 

“I’m not accustomed to working with Witchers,” she said, confirming this fear. “I was just guessing when I gave you the medicine for the pneumonia, and I’m very glad it’s worked, but I’m afraid you’ll need someone with more experience to help you with this one.” 

Geralt sighed. 

“You’ll need a mage.” 

“And where can I find one? Are there any in this part of The Continent?”

She thought for a moment. 

“There aren’t any near here,” she said. “I’d say your best bet is Vengerberg.” 

Geralt’s heart sank. Vengerberg was a ways away. He wasn’t sure if he could travel that far. And even if he could, he’d be moving further away from Kaer Morhen. What if he went all that way just to find out there was nobody there who could help him? On top of this, he still had no money. 

She seemed to follow his train of thoughts, because her next words were a warning. 

“I’ve held the pneumonia at bay, but if you don’t deal with this it will kill you,” she said, emphasizing the “will.” 

A chill ran down his spine. 

“And if it doesn’t, it’ll be something else, but I’d wager whatever it is strikes sooner rather than later. I’ve bought you some time, but you have to deal with the underlying problem. 

Her almost scolding tone reminded him painfully of Nenneke. He’d already made so many mistakes. He couldn’t afford to make another one, and traveling all that way to find a mage seemed risky at best. 

But she was right. What option did he have? 

“Go to Vengerberg,” she urged. “There will be someone there who is able to help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact, the title of this fic is also a lyric from a song. and that song has huuuuge Geraskier vibes.  
> I'll give ten points to anybody who figures it out . yknow, if you're into that sort of thing  
> (hint: it's by the same artist who does electra heart)  
> let me know if you need any more hints.


	29. Chapter 29

After their conversation Estrilda spent several minutes checking up on Geralt and making sure the pneumonia really was still held at bay. She listened to his lungs and his heart, checking to see if his body temperature had returned to normal after the terrible cold from the night before.

“Your lungs still seem weak, especially for a Witcher. I worry about you traveling.” 

That made two of them. Just thinking about going back on the Path made him tired. 

“Do you have a horse, or are you traveling on foot?” She asked. 

Geralt thought back to Roach, who was still all alone at the stable. He needed to get back to her. 

“I have a horse.” 

“Good. I still wouldn’t push it though. You’ll need to conserve as much energy as possible.” 

“Great,” he said, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Thank you. For everything.” 

“Wait,” Estrilda put a hand on his chest to stop him from standing up. “You should stay here for at least a few days and get your strength back. You were practically dead just a couple of hours ago. Give yourself some time to rest.” 

Geralt didn’t have time to rest. And more than that, he had no money. He already couldn’t afford to pay Estrilda for the work she’d already done let alone anything more. 

“I really should go.” 

“Do you have somewhere to be?” she teased. 

“Actually I do.” 

She gave him an incredulous look. He realized how ridiculous he must look, but he did have people expecting him in just a couple of weeks. 

“I’m supposed to spend the winter at Kaer Morhen,” he answered, trying to make this sound as serious as possible. 

She had the audacity to laugh. 

“I thought Witchers were supposed to be intelligent. You can’t survive the trip up to Kaer Morhen.” 

He didn’t like her accusatory tone. 

“Then I’ll stay in Vengerberg.” He could think of few places he’d like to spend the winter less than Vengerberg, but he’d tell her that if it would placate her. And being stuck in Vengerberg would be better than being dead.

“Either way,” he continued, “I can’t stay here any longer.” 

“Why are you in such a hurry, Witcher?” 

Geralt sighed. 

“I can’t pay you,” he admitted. He’d probably be blushing from shame if his heartbeat wasn’t so slow. “I spent my last coin on the room.” 

Much to his surprise, she didn’t seem angry. 

“I think you have bigger things to worry about than paying me,” she said. “You can come back once you’re healed and we’ll settle up then.” 

He was taken aback by her kindness. It was so much more than he deserved. He wasn’t used to being trusted by the general public, so her attitude toward him was incredibly touching. 

“But you just told me I wouldn’t survive the trip up to Kaer Morhen. Then where would you be? There must be something I can do for you.” 

Estrilda chuckled. 

“I guess you’ll just have to rethink your plans for the winter. Now that you know the stakes, I’m betting you’re smart enough to keep yourself alive,” she said. 

“You’d better not prove me wrong, Witcher.” 

***

Geralt stayed with Estrilda for the next few days. The hot meals were as helpful as the medicine, and being able to rest in a warm bed without worrying about being subject to the cold and rain was invaluable. As much as he felt it was good for him to be able to relax and get his strength back though, he couldn’t ignore how the weather was getting colder, and winter was drawing nearer with every passing day. 

He needed to get to Vengerberg if he wanted to be healed in time to make it up to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Estrilda might think it an impossible goal, but he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he didn’t have at least the prospect of spending the winter with his family. 

On his fourth morning since returning from the brink of death Geralt stood outside with Roach, bidding farewell to Estrilda. 

“Thank you again for everything,” he said. “I’ll come back in the spring with what I owe you.” 

She smiled. 

“I sincerely hope you do, Witcher.” 

Her words rang in his ears as he rode out of town. If his time here had taught him anything, it was that he had a lot of unfinished business. He owed too many people too many things to just lay down and die in an inn somewhere. He owed Estrilda for caring for him, and more than that, he owed Jaskier an apology. 

He spent many hours of his journey thinking over what he might say—how he could possibly make up for the terrible thing he’d done. He knew it would be months until he saw him again, but focusing on the apology made it a little bit easier to stop beating himself up for the way he’d treated him. Even this though, wasn’t enough to keep his mind off of his pain. 

Estrilda had done an incredible job healing him. She’d practically performed a miracle. But even so, he still felt weak. He didn’t push anything, riding Roach and taking frequent breaks. Still, his energy was draining fast. Spending long stretches of time in the saddle aggravated the pain in his leg, and despite the fair weather, his lungs ached with each breath. He feared he wouldn’t make it all the way to Vengerberg. 

He just kept repeating in his mind what Estrilda had told him. 

There would be someone in Vengerberg who could help him. 

He could finally get rid of this venomous weight which was determined to drag him down. 

Throughout his journey to the city, there were many times he felt like he couldn’t go on. He wanted to stop. He wanted to give up. He wanted to lay on the forest floor and let the pain overtake him. Each time these thoughts crept into his mind, he thought back to what Estrilda had said. 

Somebody would be there for him in Vengerberg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit filler-y  
> Stay tuned  
> More action coming soon


	30. Chapter 30

Geralt knew the trip to Vengerberg would be difficult, but he hadn’t been prepared for this. He had felt strong going in, coming from four days of rest and good meals, but he was growing weaker and weaker at an alarming rate. The pneumonia must have done more damage than he thought, because he was losing his energy each day much faster than he had before. And each morning he woke with less energy than he had the previous day  
.   
Things he’d done before with ease came with great difficulty. He grew fatigued just finding food and making camp. He still hadn’t regained the ability to use his signs, and this would probably hurt his ego if he had the energy to care about things like that. 

He couldn’t wait until he was back at Kaer Morhen with his brothers. Maybe once he was in the company of his family, training, and able to use his signs, he might finally feel like a Witcher again. 

But for now he was stuck just barely getting by, relying completely on Roach and praying he’d live long enough to find a mage who could help him. 

Toward the end of the journey to Vengerberg, he began to worry again at night that he might not wake if he went to sleep. He was tempted to just push through and avoid sleep altogether, but that would be deadly for sure. He couldn’t let fear control his decisions. He needed to rely on reason and reason alone. 

Still the fear took its toll. He slept, but it was shallow, fitful sleep, punctuated with nightmares. Sometimes though, he had dreams. He dreamt he was back at Melitele’s Temple being lovingly tended to by Nenneke. He dreamt he was back with Jaskier, no animosity between them. He dreamt he had been forgiven. 

These were worse than the nightmares. At least when he woke in a cold sweat from a terrifying scene his wakefulness reminded him he was safe. Waking from the dreams felt like being pulled from something wonderful, reminding him of all his mistakes. 

By the time the gates of Vengerberg came into view, Geralt was on his last legs. He thought of how nice the inns would be in such a big city, how comfortable the beds, but of course he’d be staying in the woods outside the castle gates. He still had no coin, and even if he did, he’d need it to pay for the help of a mage. As it was, he simply had to hope he could find one who understood and appreciated the value of Witchers enough to take him at his word and let him owe them. He hated how helpless he felt, but there was nothing to be done about it. Until this problem was fixed he was damned to being a burden to society. 

As he approached the walls of Vengerberg, he was taken aback by the amount of people entering and exiting the city. A lot of time had passed since the last time he’d been here, but surely the population hadn’t grown this much. It wasn’t until he heard the sound of the crowds inside that he realized what was going on. 

He swore. 

The harvest festival. He should have known. Then again, maybe it was better he didn’t. This was the only city he’d be able to make it to, and knowing he’d be greeted with partying citizens would have only made the journey more miserable. There was nothing to do but endure it. 

He’d ask what he’d done to deserve this, but he knew. 

The way he’d been acting was reprehensible, and if having to make his way through crowds of drunk people on his quest to find a mage was the only thing he had to deal with, then the universe had been kind to him. 

He deserved much worse than this. 

***

Jaskier was second guessing traveling with Adrien to Vengerberg. The thought of the crowds, and the drinking, and everybody asking where he’d been made him want to turn around and go spend the winter at Melitele’s Temple. He thought about how nice it would be to spend the winter with Nenneke, reading by the fireplace, resting, and having a mellow time. It was vastly different to the wild times he’d had in winters past at Oxenfurt, or his undoubtedly interesting winters at Kaer Morhen. Both of these were much more spirited than a winter at Melitele’s Temple, but for the first time in his life he suspected he might enjoy a boring time rather than a lively one. 

Jaskier was by no means an introvert, and he knew once he was in the midst of the celebration he would enjoy himself, but he wasn’t the man he’d been when he was younger. He suppressed a laugh at this thought. He wasn’t old by any stretch of the imagination. There was no point in thinking of himself as a decrepit elderly person, but still, his years traveling with Geralt had changed him. 

More than this, the venomous arachasae encounter had changed him. Nenneke had done an incredible job healing him, but even weeks later he still felt fatigued, and if he pushed himself too hard he worried the pain in his lungs and chest would return. He’d put a lot of work into his rehabilitation, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to squander it by partying. 

His greatest problem though, was an emotional one. Geralt had left him a wreck, and he still hadn’t gotten over it. The way he’d left had not only left Jaskier missing him and feeling betrayed, it had wrecked his confidence, and he was plagued with anxiety about his other friends disliking him as well. He suspected that a little bit of partying might help get rid of this problem, rather than make it worse. 

A little bit of drinking, time with his friends who weren’t grumpy old Witchers, and some good old fashioned revelry might be exactly what he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's officially midterm season and I have a ton of schoolwork, so if I'm not updating as regularly as I have been lately that's why.   
> definitely not because I'm leaving you on the hook waiting for the (alleged) Geraskier reunion.


	31. Chapter 31

Jaskier was drunk. 

Drunker than he’d been in a long time. 

He’d been recognized pretty quickly once he and Adrien had reached the city, and they’d both been invited to a rather exclusive party. He was so used to traveling through tiny, obscure towns in the countryside, full of people who had never heard of the famous bard, Jaskier. It was nice to be admired again. He’d worked hard for his fame. What right did Geralt have to take it away from him? He was more than a sidekick. 

It was what Nenneke had been trying to get him to believe for weeks, but something about being intoxicated had made the message finally stick. 

Maybe Jaskier was a little bit too drunk. 

Something about almost dying, spending weeks recovering, and not having a drink in nearly three months had really damaged his tolerance. 

“So are you going to tell me what happened?” Adrien asked, speaking up over the noise of the crowd. “Everybody wants to know.” 

Jaskier wasn’t sure who “everybody was,” but Adrien had asked him about his travels with Geralt several times on their journey to Vengerberg. Each time Jaskier had been able to successfully steer the conversation in a different direction, but he knew eventually he would have to come up with something to tell him. 

“I mean,” Adrien began, “you disappear for months, nobody knows where you are, you haven’t been at any big events in nearly a year, and then I find you alone, at Melitele’s Temple of all places?” he asked. “I’ve heard a lot about you and that Witcher—that’s where you’ve been, right? So where is he now?” 

Jaskier sighed. 

“Adrien—” 

“I know, I know. You don’t want to talk about it, but whether you like it or not, other people are talking about it. Wouldn’t you rather head off the rumors yourself before they get out of hand?” 

Maybe he had a point. He’d rather be able to control what parts of the story got out instead of having to deal with countless versions coming from people with none of the facts. 

“So, what happened? Why were you at Melitele’s Temple?”

“I was injured,” he answered. “Traveling with Geralt.” 

“Was it a monster?”

“Venomous Arachasae.” 

Adrien gasped. 

“You fought an Arachasae?” 

“What? No. Geralt did. It nearly killed him. I got injured carrying him back to town.” 

Adrien smiled at him. 

“That’s incredible! So why did he leave you then?” 

That one hurt like a punch to the gut. 

“You know,” Adrien continued. “If you saved him.” 

This had been a mistake. He shouldn’t have said anything. He shouldn’t have come to Vengerberg. None of this would have happened if he had just stayed at Melitele’s Temple. He knew he was moving on too soon. 

“Jaskier, I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean to,” he rambled. 

“No, it’s fine,” Jaskier stammered. He’d started this story, and now he had to finish it. “I got pretty sick. Geralt was back on his feet before I was, so he headed out. It wasn’t a big deal.” 

It had been a big deal, and this statement was a lie, but Adrien didn’t need to know this. Jaskier had told him enough of the story—hopefully enough to keep “everyone,” as Adrien had put it, from talking about him. 

“Here, I’ll get you another drink.” 

“No,” Jaskier rushed to stop him. “I think I’ve had enough.” Suddenly he felt sick. This whole thing had been a mistake. He couldn’t go back to Melitele’s Temple now, but he could go get a room somewhere. He could spend time by himself, hiding away until the celebration was over. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Adrien said. “It’s just that people have missed you. It’s strange that you’ve been gone for so long. You’re too talented to hide away in the woods with that old Witcher.” 

Jaskier’s brow furrowed. Maybe Adrien had a point. 

“You know, what? You’re right,” he admitted.

“This is where you belong, not fighting Arachasaes.” 

“Yeah! This is where I belong. I will take that drink, Adrien.” 

“Yes!” 

He grabbed a drink for Jaskier and one for himself. 

“Cheers!” 

“Yes! To new beginnings!” 

His good mood returned as quickly as it had gone. 

He downed the drink in one go, relishing the familiar feeling. It had been far too long. 

“You know,” he began, “Geralt would never go to parties with me. I spent all those nights sleeping on the ground, and the minute it looked like we might have some fun he’d give me some line about having to be up early in the morning to go fight some fucking, drowner or something. And I just went along with it!” 

“What a waste!” Adrien agreed. “You deserve to have a good time. And you deserve not to have to sleep on the ground,” he said. “He made you sleep on the ground?” 

“I know! It’s absolutely ridiculous.” 

“You should be glad he left. Isn’t this better? You’re out, you’re singing, you’re having a good time. This is where you belong, Jaskier,” Adrien reiterated. 

He was right. 

Jaskier had wasted so much time traveling with Geralt, and what had he gotten out of it? A nearly lethal injury and a terrible tolerance for alcohol. He’s lost a lot of time following him around, and now he had to make up for it. He was finally out of The Witcher’s shadow, and now he needed to embrace his life, alone, as a bard. Not someone to follow Geralt around and do favors for him, but a musician. This was what he was supposed to be, and he hated that it had taken nearly dying, and then being abandoned to realize it. 

He threw back another drink. 

The bitter taste had just barely faded when something caught his eye. A flash of white in the corner of his line of sight. 

It couldn’t be. 

Not now. Not when he’d finally decided he was ready to move on. 

He turned to face where the flash had come from, hoping he was wrong. 

But no. There he was, unmistakeable, a hulking figure in all black. And he appeared to be looking for someone. 

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love drunk Jaskier


	32. Chapter 32

Geralt hated crowds even in the best of times. Now though, making his way through the masses of people in the Vengerberg Harvest Festival felt like just about the closest thing to hell Geralt could think of. He felt like he was suffocating, the close packed people just exacerbated the problem of his already weak lungs. They had felt almost back to normal when he had left Estrilda’s, but after the journey to Vengerberg it felt as if there was something tied around them, constricting them and never letting him get a full breath in. His energy was fully depleted. He had a feeling if he didn’t find a mage tonight he might be out of luck. He didn’t think he could get out of bed one more time. 

The Harvest Festival was in full swing. He had to talk to many more strangers than he would have liked before he figured out where he could find a mage. Everyone pointed him to a party in the center of town. It was supposed to be exclusive. Hopefully that meant there would be less people at it, but something told Geralt this wouldn’t be the case. 

He had a little trouble getting in, unable to use Axii to coerce the guard, but after one failed attempt he got inside, and began scanning the whole room for someone who could help him. The people who he’d spoken to before had said there were several mages in the city, maybe more for the festival, and any around would probably be at this party. 

Geralt had run into his fair share of mages in his time on The Path. Surely he could find someone he knew here. 

***

“You can’t be serious.” 

Jaskier spoke to no one in particular, but Adrien picked up on his third sudden mood change of the night, and responded.

“What?” he asked. 

Jaskier pulled his eyes away from The Witcher to look back at his friend. 

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to share this recent development with Adrien. “It’s nothing.” 

His eyes drifted back to Geralt. 

He stood a head above a lot of the crowd, but then again so did Jaskier. It made it easier for Jaskier to see him. He appeared to be looking for someone. Jaskier’s stomach dropped. Geralt wasn’t looking for him. Was he? 

Jaskier told himself to relax, to breathe. Even if Geralt was looking for him, he would have no problem telling him to leave. He didn’t owe Geralt anything, and he wasn’t afraid to say it. 

All worries about Geralt coming here to find him disappeared though, as soon as he turned around. 

Jaskier had seen him under the influence of his Witcher potions plenty of times, eyes black, skin pale as a ghost, but somehow this looked even more unnatural. His eyes were the same familiar gold they’d always been, but his skin had a jarring pallor to it, even his lips had taken on a pale, gray blue color, and the circles under his eyes were so dark it almost looked like they were bruises. 

And he’d lost weight. It was hard to tell under his armor, but it was evident enough in his face. His cheekbones and jaw were much more prominent. He hadn’t even looked this bad when he’d been half dead at Mera’s. 

At least now he knew Geralt wasn’t looking for him. If he wasn’t a fool, he’d be looking for a healer, or a mage. With the way he looked though, he probably needed a miracle worker. 

What the hell had happened since he left? 

***

Geralt was really starting to get claustrophobic. The room was too hot, the smell of alcohol too strong, the people too loud, and Geralt’s lungs too weak to keep up with his quickly escalating heart rate. 

He was about ready to give up and leave, or maybe pass out, when he saw her. The shock of red hair was conspicuous enough despite the low light of the room. 

“Triss!” 

Triss Merigold was an old friend and, thank the gods, a mage. 

He cut through the crowd to get to her, beyond ready to get out of this damned party. 

“Geralt!” 

She put down her drink, reaching out to embrace him. She looked overjoyed to see him. Words couldn’t describe how happy he was to see her. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the crowd. 

“Looking for you, actually,” he answered, “believe it or not.” 

She grinned, no doubt getting the wrong idea. The grin faded as she took in his appearance. 

“What’s going on Geralt?” 

“Can we go somewhere a little bit more private?” 

It was one of the oldest lines in the book, but he knew Triss wouldn’t mistake his meaning now. Not after she got a good look at him. 

She didn’t have to say anything for him to see she knew how close to death he was—maybe even better than he himself did.

“There’s a room upstairs,” she said, taking his hand. 

Just the thought of climbing stairs made his chest hurt, but he still let her lead him away. Passing out from a lack of oxygen seemed more desirable right now than staying downstairs at this party for one minute more. 

***

Jaskier watched as Geralt embraced a woman on the other side of the room. He recognized her quickly enough as Triss Merigold. So Geralt was looking for a mage. 

As he watched the two of them talk, Jaskier grew more and more curious. He told himself that he didn’t care. Geralt could do whatever he wanted, it didn’t matter. He could go out and get himself sick or injured or whatever had happened to him, and he could deal with it on his own. He clearly didn’t need any help from him, and there was no reason for Jaskier to need to know what was going on. 

The more he tried to convince himself he didn’t care, the more he wanted to drop everything and get close enough to hear what they were saying. 

When they turned to leave, Jaskier knew he’d have to make a choice. He could follow them and figure out what was going on, or he could stay here with Adrien and have a perfectly nice evening. 

He knew what he should do, but he also knew deep down what he wanted to do. 

One was clearly the healthy option, but was he strong enough to stay away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll stop stringing y'all along someday, but today is not that day.


	33. Chapter 33

Triss took Geralt’s hand, and he let her pull him up the stairs behind her. She was walking faster than he would have, taking the stairs at a speed which wouldn’t have fazed him in normal times. He was still too proud to tell her to slow down, but he stumbled halfway up, and Triss slowed their pace. He hated it. He was supposed to represent pique physical fitness, not collapse on a stairway in front of crowds of people. 

He didn’t collapse though, somehow making it up the stairway and into what appeared to be a bedroom at the end of the hall, before having to sit down for fear of fainting.

Triss seemed to sense he was in no shape for speaking at the moment, choosing instead to take this time to change out of her rather extravagant party dress. 

This must be her room, he thought absentmindedly. 

It took him longer than he would have liked to get himself back into a place where he could talk, but Triss was ready for him when he did. 

“So Geralt,” she said, sitting down on the bed in front of him. “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into?” 

“Arachasae Venom,” he said. “And pneumonia.” 

She shook her head disapprovingly. 

“I didn’t think Witchers could get pneumonia.” 

“I live to subvert expectations, Triss. Now can you help me?” he asked.

“Well that depends. I need some more information. What’s been going on? What ails you, my dear?” 

Geralt didn’t appreciate her patronizing tone, but he needed her help so he let it go.

“I got bitten by the Arachasae about two months ago,” he began, “and I nearly died then, but a healer was able to get enough venom out of my system to keep me alive. Ever since then I’ve been getting weaker and weaker. I can’t take contracts anymore. I can’t barely eat. I can hardly walk.” 

“And what happens if you do?” she asked. 

He looked at her, dumbstruck. Wasn’t it obvious?

“I need details, Geralt,” she urged. “What happened the last time you took a contract?” 

He took a moment to think back. He’d been utterly miserable at the time, but looking back, things could have been a lot worse. It almost seemed preferable in hindsight. 

He started with the story about the griffin, continuing to the harpies, explaining everything from the pain, to the exhaustion, to the throwing up. He told her how the black liquid which had been in his blood, sweat, and vomit when Mera had detoxed him, continued to show up even all these weeks later. 

Triss nodded sympathetically. 

“It sounds like you’ve still got the Arachasae venom in your system.” 

Geralt sighed. 

“I’d gathered that much, Triss. How do I get it out?” 

“It sounds like you have been,” she said. “Slowly and painfully, but surely.” 

“Okay, well is there a way you can do it quickly?” He asked. 

“Hmm,” she thought for a moment. “It depends on how deeply it’s bonded to your body.” 

“How can we figure that out?” 

“You said a healer got a lot of the venom out on the first day. What did she do?” 

Geralt thought back. He remembered very little from that first day, and most of his memories were only of pain. 

“I was unconscious for almost everything, but I know she gave me a potion, and it expelled a lot of the venom.” 

“How?” 

“Most of it was out through the wound, but from what she told me, it was everywhere. Like I said, blood, sweat, vomit, tears.” 

“Did she say anything else about the potion she used?” 

Geralt strained to think back through the haze of pain which clouded that day’s memories. 

“She said it was a last resort.” 

Triss gave a knowing nod. 

“I think I know what she used.” 

“What was it then?” Geralt asked, not liking the expression she’d taken on. 

“What it was isn’t what matters. What matters is what it did.” 

“Well what did it do then?” Geralt was starting to grow impatient. 

“It got a lot of the venom out,” Triss repeated, unhelpfully, “but what remained was pushed even deeper in your body. It’s bound to the smallest parts of you.” 

A chill ran down Geralt’s back. 

“Can’t you just draw it out?” 

She let out a cold, humorless chuckle. 

“It would tear you apart from the inside out. The pain alone would kill you if the internal bleeding didn’t manage to.” 

Geralt swallowed hard. 

“So what do I do then?” 

He knew living like this for much longer would be a death sentence—painful enough in its own right. 

“Keep doing what you’ve been doing. The exertion seems to be purging the venom from your system well enough. It’s unpleasant, I’m sure, but eventually it’ll all be gone from your body,” she suggested. 

“I can’t keep going like this, Triss.” Her plan seemed so disheartening, he would almost rather she told him it would be excruciating, if only it could be quick. 

“It’s nearly killed me already. I’ll surely die before I can get all of the venom out.” 

She gave him a quizzical look, as if she didn’t believe him. Wasn’t his appearance now evidence enough? 

“I tried that plan already,” he continued. “And it brought me here, half dead and nearly too weak to walk.” 

“You haven’t tried my plan,” she asserted. “You tried a lazy, half concocted version of my plan.” 

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He could tell she noticed his displeasure, and continued nevertheless. 

“You tried to work the venom from your body, while starving, out on the path, barely sleeping, and with pneumonia,” she said. “I can clear up your lungs tonight, no problem, and then if you start again and do it right this time, you should be able to get rid of the venom in a matter of months.” 

Months? He groaned. 

“Would you rather I tell you it’s a lost cause? That you’re dead already?” 

She had a point. 

“No,” he admitted, “but you must see how frustrating this is for me.” 

She nodded. 

“It’ll be better once you start fresh,” she promised. “If you can get plenty of sleep, eat enough food, and exert yourself in a controlled environment, I think you’ll find it much more manageable.” 

Manageable. 

He supposed he deserved this, but it didn’t lessen his dread. 

At least the coming weeks of torture would be “manageable.” 

What more could he ask for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier will reunite eventually...


	34. Chapter 34

Jaskier only had a few moments to make up his mind. 

Geralt was going up to the second floor now, and once they disappeared into a room upstairs, he’d lose them. He shouldn’t. Geralt didn’t even know he was here; he could stay down here and Geralt would never be the wiser. 

But he was so curious. 

What was going on with him? Why did he look so terrible? What had happened in the time they’d been apart? 

Geralt was halfway up the stairs. 

Jaskier told himself Geralt wouldn’t have to know. He seemed preoccupied enough with Tris, and whatever problem he’d come here to have her solve. He could just listen at the door… 

Adrien spoke, snapping Jaskier from his thoughts. He must have finally realized what had captured Jaskier’s attention. 

“Is that?” he asked, following Jaskier’s eye line. “Oh no. That isn’t.” 

Jaskier didn’t respond. 

Geralt was three quarters of the way up the staircase. If he was going to make a move it needed to be now. 

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Adrien,” Jaskier said. 

“Jaskier wait,” he reached out to grab the bard’s hand. 

Geralt was nearing the top step now. His time was running out. 

“You just finished telling me how terrible he was to you. Why do you want to see him?” 

He pulled his hand away. 

“I don’t want to see him. I want to follow him. Let me go.” 

“Okay, but I’m coming with you.” 

Jaskier didn’t have time to argue. 

“Fine, just be quiet.” 

He didn’t want Adrien to follow him, but by the time he convinced him to stay here, Geralt and Triss would be long gone. 

Jaskier rushed up the stairs, Adrien right behind him. Jaskier stopped as soon as he reached the top step, Adrien running into his back in his rush. 

Jaskier shushed him, even though he wasn’t speaking, and peeked around the corner. He’d made it up the stairs just in time to see Geralt and Triss walk into a bedroom down the hall. 

He waited for a few seconds before walking up to the door. He put one ear against the wood, and Adrien tried to do the same but there wasn’t space. 

“I can’t hear,” Adrien whispered frantically. 

“I’ll tell you everything after, now be quiet. He’ll hear you.” 

This was true. With Geralt’s Witcher senses there was a good chance he’d already heard them. Hopefully he was distracted enough by his sickness, or injury, of whatever had him looking half dead, that he didn’t notice. 

He must not have, because nobody came to the door to shoo them away. 

There was silence from behind the door for so long that Jaskier thought he picked the wrong room, but no, he’d seen them come here. 

After several painfully long minutes he heard someone speak. 

It was Triss. 

It was hard to hear everything, but Jaskier got the gist. She asked about his injury, and he told her—nothing Jaskier hadn’t been there for. It wasn’t until he started talking about griffins and harpies that Jaskier really strained to catch every word. This was it. The grand mystery. This was what he’d been up to in Jaskier’s absence. Or perhaps it was during Geralt’s absence. After all, he was the one who left. 

“I can’t take contracts anymore. I can’t barely eat. I can’t hardly walk.” 

Jaskier felt a sort of hollow dread in the pit of his stomach. More than that he felt sympathy. He hated to think of Geralt out there on the path suffering, nearly dying. He told himself he didn’t care. After all, Geralt clearly didn’t care about him. 

“It sounds like you still have Arachasae venom in your system.” 

Arachasae venom? How long had it been now since that day down in the valley? 

“How do I get it out?” 

It was hard to hear Triss’ response, but Jaskier was able to make out the words, “slowly,” and “painfully.” 

Had Geralt been suffering this whole time? Jaskier didn’t care. He wasn’t supposed to care. 

They talked about Mera some more. Nothing caught his attention again until he heard Triss laugh. 

“It would tear you apart from the inside out. The pain alone would kill you if the internal bleeding didn’t manage to.” 

Jaskier felt sick. He shouldn’t have come to Vengerberg. He shouldn’t have gotten drunk. And he definitely shouldn’t have followed Geralt and Triss up here. He couldn’t leave now though, not with the matter of Geralt’s life and death hanging in the balance. 

He heard the question from his own mind come from behind the door in Geralt’s familiar voice. 

“So what do I do then?” 

It was almost too low to hear. 

The conversation continued in these hushed tones. That was until Triss started yelling. 

“You can’t be serious.” 

It was so jarring that Jaskier actually took a step back from the door. There was no need to strain to hear them now. 

“I have to go to Kaer Morhen, Triss, you wouldn’t understand.” Geralt wasn’t yelling, but he’d raised his voice enough to be heard through the door. 

“I wouldn’t understand, or you’re ashamed to admit your real reason?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “You will die, Geralt. Has nobody told you this? Surely you can’t be this stupid.” 

“I’m not—” Geralt stammered. “You aren’t being fair.” 

“Maybe I’m not being fair, but I’m being honest. I’m trying to help you. Can’t you see that? Why do you need so badly to go to Kaer Morhen? You aren’t foolish enough to kill yourself over a matter of tradition.” It came out almost like a question. 

“It’s not a matter of tradition,” Geralt argued. 

“Then what is it? What is so important about Kaer Morhen that you’ll risk your life trying to get there?” 

“Because I can’t do this by myself,” Geralt shouted, finally matching Triss’ volume. “I’m willing to die trying to get to my family, because I know I’ll die for sure if I try to do this on my own.” 

This was followed by a long moment of silence. 

“I’m not strong enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Burnout? Couldn't be me. I love college and I definitely don't want to drop out immediately right now today.


	35. Chapter 35

It took all of Jaskier’s self control to not burst into the room. He held his breath, listening for Triss, hoping she would say something to comfort him like Jaskier wanted so badly to do himself. 

“I can’t stop you then,” she said. “This is your mistake to make.” 

Geralt had no reply to this. 

“I’m sorry to see it, Geralt. I really did admire you.” 

“I can make it, Triss. I know I can,” Geralt insisted. “Please. You’ll still help me?” 

The best help Geralt could get now was someone knocking him out and waking him up once winter was over so he couldn’t kill himself trudging through the snow in the mountains. 

“I’ll still get rid of the pneumonia,” Triss said. “But I can’t do anything more than that. I leave tomorrow to spend the winter in Temeria. I’m expected there.” 

Getting rid of the pneumonia was a start, but Jaskier hardly believed this would be enough to carry him through the mountains, especially travelling by himself.

“You could come with me.” 

Triss’ voice was once again nearly too low for Jaskier to hear. 

“I know it isn’t the same as being with your family, but I could help you. It won’t be as hard as you think.” 

Jaskier perked up at this suggestion. This could be the best thing for him—for both of them. Geralt would be safe. Triss seemed to care about him, and she knew more about his ailment than anyone so far. She was a mage. She could take care of him just as well, if not better than Vesemir could. 

And Jaskier would be able to go on with his plans to spend the winter alone at Oxenfurt without having to worry about Geralt dying alone in the mountains somewhere. He couldn’t imagine sitting in front of the fire and relaxing if he knew Geralt was out there, falling asleep in a snowbank and never waking up. Would they have to wait until the snow melted in the spring to find his body? Would any of his brothers even know what had happened? Why he’d never showed up? 

“That wouldn’t be fair to either of us,” Geralt said, snapping Jaskier back into the present moment. 

If Jaskier could bang his head against the wall in frustration without getting found out for eavesdropping he would. 

“It would be no trouble, Geralt, really. I’d be happy to do it.” 

“I have to get to Kaer Morhen, Triss.” Geralt said. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Jaskier pushed away from the door, and stumbled back to the staircase. It was less the alcohol now, and more the shock of the reality of the situation sinking in. Geralt was going to die. 

Geralt was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it. 

He sat down on the top step and put his head in his hands. 

Adrien followed, sitting down next to him. All he had was the part of their conversation which had been shouted, but he gathered enough to know why Jaskier was upset. 

“You don’t have any obligation to him, Jaskier,” Adrien said, trying and failing to comfort him. “He hurt you. It sounds like he made a lot of bad choices. You aren’t at fault here. Don’t hold yourself accountable for his mistakes.” 

“That’s not what this is about Adrien,” Jaskier said, not looking up and wishing more than anything to be alone. 

“Then what is it about? Why are you so upset about him. You’ve clearly gone your separate ways.” 

“That’s what I’m so upset about. I don’t want to be separate.” He wouldn’t be saying any of this if he was sober. He was aware of himself enough to know that. But he was glad it was being said. It needed to be addressed. His feelings about Geralt needed to be addressed, and quickly by the sound of it.

“He hurt you,” Adrien stated. “Why can’t you just leave him?” 

That was the question wasn’t it. Jaskier couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He was still angry, undoubtedly, but there was something about the Witcher he wasn’t ready to let go of.

“Because I’m not finished with him yet,” Jaskier answered. 

“What?” Adrien said, sounding utterly baffled. 

“I’m angry yes,” he admitted, “but I don’t want him gone.” 

Adrien still didn’t seem to follow. 

“Because I want to be angry at him a little bit longer. Because I want an apology. Because he shouldn’t be allowed to get away with deserting me twice.” 

As much as he hated the Witcher for leaving him, he couldn’t imagine living in a world without him in it. What he’d done was terrible. Jaskier knew that. But it shouldn’t be a death sentence. That was more punishment than he deserved. 

Jaskier stood up. 

“Where are you going?” Adrien asked, standing as well.

“Go enjoy the party Adrien,” Jaskier instructed. “I’ll be in later.” 

Jaskier thought if Adrien didn’t agree to leave now he might hit him. Luckily for both of them, Adrien figured out now was the time to quit. 

“I’ll just be downstairs,” he said. “If you need anything.” 

Jaskier took a deep, measured breath. 

“Thank you Adrien.” 

Once his friend was finally gone Jaskier stood up and walked back over to the door of Triss’ room. He heard no sounds from inside. 

Jaskier sat down on the floor across from the door. 

There was no way to know Triss would come out before morning—no way to know the door wouldn’t reveal the Witcher himself the next time it opened—but Jaskier couldn’t think of a better plan. 

Triss said she was going to heal Geralt’s lungs. Hopefully that meant putting him into some sort of healing sleep. If this was the case then surely she’d be the first to leave the room. Jaskier didn’t care how long he had to wait. He had to talk to Triss before she left for Temeria and Geralt left for Kaer Morhen. 

She clearly cared about him, and didn’t want him to go either. Between the two of them they must be able to think of some way to keep him here, or convince him to go to Temeria with Triss. Anything to keep him from venturing into the mountains alone. 

Anything to keep him alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, I'm having a little bit of a rough time with school rn and my mental health, nothing to be worried about, just letting you know updates aren't going to be quite as regular here for a little while  
> <3


	36. Chapter 36

Jaskier was jolted awake by the sound of someone hissing his name in a sharp whisper. He had fallen asleep on the floor across the hall from Triss’ room, and, as according to plan, she had found him. 

“What are you doing here?” 

He stood up, both of his legs numb and tingling. 

“I need to speak with you.” 

She crossed her arms over her chest. 

“Well you could have knocked. There was no need to fall asleep outside my door.” 

“I had to do it this way,” he explained. “Geralt doesn’t know I’m here.” 

This seemed to pique her interest. She reached out for his hand and moved to lead him inside her room. Jaskier planted his feet, causing her to stop rather abruptly before reaching the door. 

“He’s in a deep sleep. He’ll be none the wiser. I’m not having this conversation in the hall.” 

Jaskier relented, letting her lead him into the room. 

Just as she’d said, Geralt was out cold on the bed. Even though Jaskier trusted Triss, and knew Geralt wouldn’t wake, seeing him so close made his heart start to beat faster. 

He was laying flat on his back. If not for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, Jaskier would have guessed he was dead. The striking pallor of his skin made the pink of his scars and the dark circles under his eyes stand out even more. 

His palms started to sweat and his breath came quicker. He wanted to help. He wanted to save Geralt, but being so near him brought back all of those terrible feelings of abandonment and betrayal he’d been fighting ever since the Witcher left Melitele’s Temple. 

“He can’t hear you. I promise,” Triss said. She must have noticed his panic. “What did you need to talk to me about?” 

He took a deep breath. Right. He could do this. He had to do this. 

“You can’t let him leave. He won’t survive.” 

Triss sighed, sitting down in a plush armchair next to the table in the middle of the room. 

“So you heard all that.” 

“Yes. He can’t go to Kaer Morhen. There’s no way he’ll survive the trip.” 

“You think I don’t know this, bard?” She asked, incredulous. “Or did you leave before I said exactly that.”

“I know, I heard, but we have to do something,” Jaskier insisted, practically pleading. 

“I tried,” Triss argued. “He wouldn’t listen. And he might be sick, but if he really wanted to he could stop either of us easily. And if I am understanding correctly, you don’t want him to know you’re here.” 

She looked at him expectantly. 

“So what do you propose we do?” 

Jaskier thought back to the overheard conversation. He remembered thinking, jokingly at the time, that someone should knock Geralt out for the whole winter. Of course this wasn’t a real viable option, but he didn’t need to be knocked out for the whole winter. Jaskier wouldn’t take that long. 

“How long can you keep him asleep like this?” He asked. “Before there are negative consequences.”

She looked at Geralt, lost in thought for a moment. 

“He’s in a pretty bad way already,” she began. “Normally I wouldn’t worry about him starving—those Witchers keep themselves in pretty resilient shape—but he appears to be fairly malnourished already. And from the looks of it he has been for a long while.” 

“So how long then?” 

“I wouldn’t push it past three days.” 

Three days. Would it be enough time? 

Jaskier had made the trip up to Kaer Morhen with Geralt before, and traveling through the mountains alone took more than three days, and that wasn’t counting the time it would take to get out of Aedirn and through Kaedwen. But he didn’t need to get to Kaer Morhen in three days. He just needed to get there before Geralt reached the edge of the mountains. Even in the shape he was in now, Jaskier thought, with the magical medical help from Triss, he’d be able to travel through Aedirn and Kaedwen without any terrible consequences. It was just that last stretch through the mountains which he worried about. 

“Will that be enough?” Triss asked. “What’s your plan?” 

“Be quiet for a minute. I’m thinking.” 

If he could get to Kaer Morhen a few days before Geralt reached the far edge of Kaedwen, he could get his brothers, or Vesemir to come back down with him and either help him the rest of the way, or convince him to give up on the idea of staying at Kaer Morhen entirely. If anybody could do it, it’d be his family. 

“So you could definitely keep him asleep for three days?” Jaskier asked. “And it wouldn’t have any detrimental effects on his health?” 

“Yes,” Triss asserted. “He’d need a couple of good meals afterward, but he’d be fine.” 

“And when do you need to leave to go to Temeria? Can you spare the time?” 

Triss smirked. “You really were listening in, weren’t you.” 

Jaskier ignored this. 

“Could you stay?” 

Triss nodded, abandoning the smirk and re-adopting a more serious tone. 

“I’m supposed to leave tomorrow, but for Geralt I can spare the time.” 

Perfect. The rest would be on him. 

Normally, Geralt travelled much faster than Jaskier, but that was when he was in peak health and when Jaskier wasn’t rushing. He’d be much slower now. If Jaskier went as fast as he could, sleeping in the saddle, would three days be enough of a headstart to get him up the mountains and get his brothers back down? If he bought a horse now, in Vengerberg, he could trade it out for a fresh one in Kaedwen once, maybe even twice. Geralt wouldn’t be pushing Roach that hard, and he’d be stopping more frequently. 

Even so, would it be enough? And if he faced no other problems traveling through the mountains, who’s to say the other members of Geralt’s family would be there already? It was a risky plan at best. But what other choice did he have? 

He pushed all doubts from his mind. They would only slow him down. He could do this. He was going to do this. He wasn’t going to let Geralt get away with this suicidal level of stupidity any longer. 

He refused to let their story end on his terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all, I just wanted to say thank you so so so much for all the incredibly kind messages on the last chapter. I appreciate them all so much. Truly, you all mean the world to me<3


	37. Chapter 37

The trip to Kaer Morhen was harder than Jaskier could have ever imagined. 

He had left Vengerberg in the early hours of the morning, as soon as he could get a fresh horse, leaving Adrien behind and taking with him only the bare essentials. Triss gave him some food and, despite his protest, a heavy bag of coins. 

“You’re already doing the brunt of the work for this plan,” she had insisted. “Let me do what little I’m able.” 

He accepted them reluctantly, promising to find her in Temeria in the spring to pay her back. 

“Don’t worry about that, bard. Focus on getting yourself and Geralt to Kaer Morhen alive and I’ll be happy.” 

Once on the path, he pushed himself as hard as he could, but he had no experience traveling at this pace. It was brutal. He stopped only long enough to get food, and maybe an hour or two of sleep if he found himself in danger of falling out of the saddle. But most days he rode through the morning afternoon and night, trying to get as big of a lead on the Witcher as he could. 

It was horribly painful at first. He’d spent plenty of time on a horse in his life, but never this relentlessly. He was accustomed to walking, not riding. The muscles in his legs ached and during the first week the tender skin of his inner thighs were rubbed raw to the point of bleeding, staining the fabric of his pants. He worried about infection, since each day the shallow wounds were reopened. He was relieved when they finally scabbed over. 

On top of this, his chest ached. He’d thought his wound there to be long since closed up and healed, but there were apparently some things deep down which required more time. The constant movement and jolting which came with riding so quickly on a horse triggered a deep persistent ache which never seemed to abate, even in the rare times when his body was still.

More than this though was the exhaustion. It penetrated him to his very core, creeping into his joints, leaving his muscles limp and useless. It had an even worse effect on his mind.  
Every day he told himself it was okay—he could rest tonight, he’d covered enough ground today to earn a night at an inn—but each time he grew close he would start to worry. What if he didn’t have as much of a headstart as he thought he did? What if Geralt was right behind him, and this one night of rest is what would make the difference between him living and dying? How could he risk it? Every day he rode on. 

He rode three horses to the point of exhaustion, trading the last one in for a fourth at the last town on the edge of Kaedwen. He drove himself to exhaustion as well, but unfortunately a handful of coins and a stable weren’t enough to solve this problem. 

There had been days in the beginning where the exhaustion and frustration had driven him to tears. He would cry for hours sometimes, thinking of how much of the journey still lay ahead of him, the worst of it waiting until the very end. Soon though, he was too exhausted to produce any tears. He would just ride on, staring blankly ahead of him, and doing his best not to think of the hardships to come—the snow and the altitude, and the harsh, whipping winds. 

In times like these it was hard to remember what he was doing this for. He tried to think about the good times he’d had with Geralt, the times when the Witcher had taken care of him, the times when he’d almost seemed fond of his bard. 

During the day he’d focus on times like these, but at night during the long hours in which he drifted between waking and sleeping, he was plagued with the more recent memories. They mixed with his nightmares, bringing him flashbacks of Geralt leaving combined with scenes of his death. When the sun rose though, he had to go on. He couldn’t let this stop him, he told himself, but a part of him feared this combination of mental and physical torture might lead him to insanity. 

***

By the time he reached the edge of the mountains he barely recognized himself. The happy, friendly, loving bard was gone. It was a good thing he’d left behind the towns full of people a few days ago, because he wasn’t sure if he could interact with them with the painfully bitter temperament he had now. He couldn’t imagine singing or playing his lute, even if he was able to get his fingers to cooperate with his brain enough to elicit music from the delicate instrument. Music no longer played in his head, the tune of his mind long gone along with the poetry of his thoughts. 

If he was transported back to his conversation with Triss with his current disposition, knowing what he did now after all these days of travel, aware of how it would alter him both mentally and physically, he would have walked away. The conversation wouldn’t have happened in the first place. He would have left the Witcher to his fate. 

The only thing which stopped him from giving up on his mission now was spite. He’d come too far and given up too much to stop. His anger pushed him forward. Geralt had to live so Jaskier could tell him just how much he despised him. 

He refused to let Geralt die believing he was the victim, when in fact he was the villain. He had broken Jaskier, and in trying to save the Witcher’s pitiful excuse for a life he’d unknowingly rebuilt his friend into a being of spite and anger and hate. The blood of the bard was on his hands, and Jaskier was determined for both of them to live long enough to let him know, and make him pay for all of his wrongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist, this has been a Jaskier villain origin story the entire time.
> 
> Honestly, I didn’t anticipate this story getting this dark, but yknow, I guess this is what happens when I don’t outline my fics.


	38. Chapter 38

Jaskier knew he wasn’t going to die. He was too set in his mission to let thoughts like that get to him, but the mountains were determined to change his mind. 

It was difficult for him to think back to his times before with Geralt without becoming upset, but he was sure when he’d traveled this path with the Witcher before it hadn’t been nearly this stormy. Maybe they’d traveled earlier in the season, or maybe this year was a particularly hard winter. Either way, it made the journey that much more difficult. 

Each breath of frigid air sent a stab of pain through his lungs. He’d long since lost the ability to feel his fingers and toes, and this numbness was quickly creeping up into his hands, wrapping around and immobilizing his ankles and knees. He could barely hold the reins anymore. He prayed to every deity he could think of that his horse would last all the way up to the keep. There was no stopping now. If he didn’t keep moving he would surely freeze. Either he would get to the keep in one go, or not at all. 

Still he was determined. If this universe had any scrap of justice, it wouldn’t let him trade his life for the traitorous Witcher’s. 

When the keep finally came into view, Jaskier was so far gone he was sure it was a hallucination, or maybe a dream. 

Between the growing distance from other people, and the frighteningly quick deterioration of Jaskier’s body and mind, he was becoming less and less able to differentiate between reality and the images conjured by his own mind. 

Sometimes he would wake from a nightmare two or three times before he became truly conscious. Other times he was fully awake, but the things he saw around him didn’t seem to make any sense. 

He never did find out whether the wolves which slunk behind him were real, or a figment of his imagination. They came and went, but too often when he looked back, there would be a wolf or two silently following. The pure white one appeared the most menacing. There was nothing to do about it but swallow his fear and keep riding. If they were real and wanted to kill him, there would be little he could do to stop them, so again, Jaskier rode on. 

Whether Kaer Morhen was real or imagined, Jaskier didn’t know, but either way when he reached the steps he knew his journey was over. If this was in fact the Witchers’ keep, and he had by some miracle managed to reach in, then his mission was completed. Someone would find him here and they would be able to finish the quest for him. If it was fake, then Jaskier was ready to accept that as well. He was too tired, too cold, too far gone to care anymore. 

He knocked on the door with as much force as he could, not stopping until he saw warm blood begin to flow from his knuckles. He had forgotten, he couldn’t feel his hands anymore. He’d need to be more careful. Even so, he switched hands and did the same to his left, desperate for someone to come to the door. Was he too early? Had the other Witchers not arrived yet? Or was the keep simply too large for them to hear him knocking on the door. His hands were too wrecked for him to keep knocking, and he was too tired to care. 

He sat down on the steps, curling up and letting his head rest against his knees, his arms wrapped around his head in a last ditch attempt to keep the cold out. 

It felt like he was giving up, but there was nothing left he could do.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there—minutes, hours, years; he hadn’t seen the sun in days—but as the time passed he cared less and less about whether or not somebody came for him. He cared little about anything now. 

He didn’t feel cold anymore even though the falling snow was accumulating in little piles on his shoulders and back. No, the only thing he felt now was tired. He’d been exhausted for so long by this point, but this was different. He felt unconsciousness pulling at him in a way he’d never experienced before. He knew he ought to fight it, but he could figure out why. 

He deserved rest. Why shouldn’t he have it? 

***

When Vesemir approached Kaer Morhen he thought an animal had curled up and died on the steps of the keep. Strange behavior for sure, but nothing too out of the ordinary. He didn’t bother to speed up until he got close enough to see the creature’s body. Close enough to tell he was a man. 

Vesemir rushed as quickly as he could to the steps. He had no idea whether this person was friend or foe, but the being was clearly too far gone to be a threat. In fact, he assumed whoever it was had died. 

The body was ice cold and covered in snow. Vesemir turned it over, his heart dropping as he recognized who it was. It was Geralt’s bard, Jaskier, his skin gray and his lips blue. Vesemir had met him on several occasions, even spending the winter with him here at the keep a couple of times. He was incredibly fond of the bard, and the thought of him dying hurt Vesemir much more than he would have anticipated. 

His mind was full of questions. Why was Jaskier here? Where was Geralt? How long had the bard been here on the steps of the keep? 

He scooped the body up into his arms, preparing to carry him inside. It wasn’t until Jaskier’s cold, wet body was pressed up against his own that he felt the heartbeat. It was almost as slow as his, and very weak, but it was there. 

He couldn’t imagine anyone being able to survive being unconscious in weather as cold as this for long, but he wasn’t dead yet, and Vesemir wasn’t going to give up on him until his heart stopped beating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(


	39. Chapter 39

Kaer Morhen had been uninhabited for months now. It wasn’t much warmer inside than out, but at least it offered shelter from the wind and snow. Still, Jaskier could just as easily freeze to death in here. There was little Vesemir could do about this though. He’d have to do the best with the few tools he had. 

His footsteps echoed as he carried the bard through the halls, reminding him of just how empty the keep was. In a matter of days if all went well, it would be warmed up and alive with the sounds of the three other Wtichers, but for now it was cold and ominous.

He brought Jaskier into the closest bedroom he could find, deciding it would do as well as any others as a sick room. The bed lacked any blankets or sheets, and everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, but it would do. He laid the limp body of the bard on the bed and began to undress him. The best thing he could do for Jaskier now was to get him out of his soaking wet, ice crusted clothes. 

How long had he been out in the cold for? Vesemir had a feeling if he had arrived even a few minutes later he would have been too late. 

He still might be too late. 

His heart beat persisted, but his skin was cold as ice. There were tiny ice crystals frozen in his hair and even in his eyelashes, and his lips were blue. The blue of his fingers and toes reached all the way up to his wrists and ankles. He’d be lucky if he didn’t lose a finger or toe, and he was surely in for some serious joint pain if he woke. Vesemir corrected himself. When he woke. He refused to let the bard die under his care. 

Getting him out of his wet clothes was the first step, but there was still much more work to be done if the bard was to be saved. Vesemir walked over to the cupboard and took out a stack of blankets. He began to wrap up Jaskier’s body, layering several blankets one on top of another. It was a significant improvement from his wet clothes, but his body wasn’t generating any heat. He’d need an external source of heat to warm him up if he was going to get his body back up to a normal temperature. 

The room had a fireplace, but no wood. Vesemir would have to go collect some. He didn’t want to leave Jaskier by himself, but there was no helping it. 

He made sure Jaskier’s whole body was bundled up in the blankets before he left, praying his heart would still be beating when he got back. 

It was harder than Vesemir would have liked to find enough dry firewood. Hopefully by the time this wood ran out there would be another Witcher arrived at the keep to collect more. He didn’t want to leave Jaskier’s side again until he was conscious. 

Throughout all of this he couldn’t help but wonder where Geralt was. In the past when Vesemir had spent time with Jaskier, he and Geralt had been inseparable. Had something happened to the white haired Witcher? Something must have. He couldn’t think of any other reason Jaskier would have traveled all the way up to Kaer Morhen by himself. 

Once the fire was going Vesemir felt a little bit more at ease. They were moving in the right direction. His body was warming now; the rest was up to Jaskier. 

Vesemir moved a mattress onto the floor so Jaskier could lay right in front of the hearth. He took one of his hands, gently unfurling his icy fingers and holding the hand between both of his own. He held it like this until its temperature matched his own and then did the same for the other hand. He noticed the dried blood on his knuckles, and spent a few minutes cleaning them and wrapping them in gauze, but the abrasions were shallow. Vesemir wasn’t worried. He was much more concerned about his temperature. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat on the floor with the unconscious bard, but slowly and surely warmth began to seep back into his body. His lips lost their blue tint and the tiniest bit of pink returned to his cheeks. His heart and lungs seemed stronger as well. His heartbeat was still slow for a human, but compared to what it had been before this was a vast improvement. 

Vesemir was hopeful, but he reserved celebration for when Jaskier woke up. There were still a lot of internal things which could have been damaged. He had no idea what condition Jaskier had been in before he reached the keep. He didn’t know the bard well enough to make too many assumptions about his health, but if he had to guess he would say Jaskier had lost weight—his cheekbones and ribs appeared more prominent than Vesemir had remembered. This could have been a natural part of his human aging, but it was most likely a consequence of the journey. Even for Vesemir, the trip up the mountains this year had been rough. The weather was especially harsh, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Jaskier had more ailments than he was showing now. 

Vesemir had also noticed the scar on his ribcage when he undressed Jaskier. It was clearly a wound which had been healed for several weeks now, if not months, but Vesemir was still curious about what had happened. He had so many questions, and even more worries. He worried about Jaskier not waking up, and he worried about Geralt. He even worried about Lambert and Eskel making it through the mountains safely. 

No matter how old they got, Vesemir would always worry about his boys. 

If he’d known how bad the weather was going to be he would have stayed back in the last town and waited so none of them would have to travel alone.

Hopefully they’d all be together again soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently, I may or may not have covid-_-  
> I think this is the universe punishing me for spending so much time torturing Jaskier and Geralt lmao


	40. Chapter 40

When Jaskier woke, he assumed the warm, comforting hand holding his was Nenneke’s. It had happened like this several times at Melitele’s Temple, where he would wake after a long, fitful night of sleep to find Nenneke holding his hand, helping to lead him out of the darkness. 

Waking up felt like emerging from the bottom of a deep, dark, and incredibly cold lake. He could recall no dreams, only a bitter, numbing coldness pressing down on him from all sides to the point of pain. The chill still had a hold of his skin, and he could neither feel nor move his hands or feet, but warmth had returned to his core. He was emerging from the depths, however slowly. 

The first thing he felt when he opened his eyes was confusion. The idyllic image of Melitele’s Temple which he’d conjured in his mind could not be farther from what surrounded him now. The room was dim and barren. There was no light coming from the window and the only things in the room were an empty bed frame and the mattress on the floor which he was laying on. 

It wasn’t until he looked over to find Vesemir, not Nenneke, holding his hand, that everything began to make sense. This was the final piece he needed to realize what had happened. As the whole situation came into focus, he marveled at how he’d ever been able to forget, even for a moment. 

Memories of his plan with Triss, of Geralt unconscious on the bed in Vengerberg, of the gut wrenchingly difficult trip up to Kaer Morhen, and finally laying down to die on the steps of the Witchers’ keep, came back to him one after another, painfully vivid. 

The emotions hit him like a tidal wave. 

Anger and fear and sadness and panic washed over him, wrapping around his heart and lungs, sending a wholly unwelcome chill throughout his body. 

“Jaskier.” Vesemir spoke softly, in a tone not unsimilar to one a person might use when approaching an injured animal. He must have sensed Jaskier’s panic either through the look in his eyes or in the steep climb of his heart rate. 

He placed his other hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, rubbing small circles there in an attempt to comfort him.

Jaskier reminded himself he was safe. Vesemir had always been kind to him. He was being taken care of. Surely the worst was over. It did nothing to alleviate the pain from the harsh emotions the last few weeks had brought him, but it did stave off the panic. 

“Can you speak?” Vesemir asked. 

Jaskier thought about this for a moment. He could feel both physical and mental barriers between him and speech. It would be so easy to shake his head no and to go back to sleep, to let Vesemir take care of him until he felt ready, but no. He wasn’t ready to give up on his mission yet. He refused to have traveled all this way in vain. 

“Yes,” he croaked. 

Vesemir’s face lit up in an expression of happiness and relief. It made Jaskier want to say more. 

“I don’t ask you this because I resent your company—I’m very glad to see you—but what are you doing here, Jaskier?” 

The question was inevitable, but Jaskier had hoped he could avoid it for a little bit longer. 

This was good though. He wasn’t sure how many hours he’d lost to unconsciousness, but time still was very much of the essence. 

“It’s Geralt.” 

***

Vesemir’s heart dropped as soon as he heard Geralt’s name. He knew when Jaskier showed up alone that it must be in some way connected to Geralt, but he was afraid the next words out of Jaskier’s mouth would confirm all of his fears. 

“Is he?” Vesemir asked, unsure if he wanted to know the truth. 

Jaskier was shaking his head before the full question passed Vesemir’s lips. 

“No,” he said. “At least he wasn’t when I left.” 

“Left where? Where is he now?” He was getting impatient, but he kept this from his voice, lest Jaskier think he was getting annoyed with him. He was so incredibly grateful for whatever information Jaskier could give him, but he was also desperate to know what had gone wrong with Geralt. 

Jaskier took a few deep breaths before answering. It was clear he was in pain. Vesemir should tell him to stop and rest, that this conversation could happen later, but he was selfish. He wanted to know what Jaskier had to say. He could rest after just a little bit more of the story was out. 

“Vengerberg. I left him in Vengerberg with Triss, but he didn’t know I was there.” 

The more Vesemir learned the more confused he got. 

“Why did you travel up here without him?” 

“To stop him,” Jaskier answered. “He was going to travel alone but he was too sick. It would have killed him.”

It was ironic to hear this from a man who had just returned from the brink of death himself, but Vesemir knew pointing this out wouldn’t help anything. 

“What happened to him? Why was he sick?” 

Jaskier sat for a few long moments, his eyes closed, seeming to be gathering up enough energy to answer this question. 

“Just a few more things, then you can rest,” Vesemir assured him. 

Jaskier nodded, his eyes still closed. 

“Venomous Arachasae,” he finally answered. “The wound healed, but the venom is still hurting him. He was too weak to travel but he wouldn’t listen.” 

He could tell that between the energy it took to speak and the very clear emotion behind the story, that Jaskier was drained, even after just a couple of minutes. One more question and then he’d give Jaskier something to help him sleep. Hopefully after another few hours of rest he would be closer to his normal self. 

“What do we need to do to help him?” Vesemir asked. 

Jaskier looked up at him, a subtle, but strong intensity behind his eyes. 

“Somebody has to go get him,” he said. “Somebody has to stop him. “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My covid test came back negative:)   
> Thank you all so much for all of your well wishes!  
> Hopefully I'll be able to go back to work soon. Until then I guess I'll just have to stay home and write more fanfic;)


	41. Chapter 41

Vesemir had a decision to make. 

He was faced with two choices. Neither were favorable, and both had potentially lethal consequences. 

On the one hand, he could stay here with Jaskier, and make sure the bard was safe. After their short conversation ended, he went back to sleep, and although his recovery looked promising, it could easily turn around, especially if he was left alone in this frigid keep with nobody to make sure he had food and water and a fire. Vesemir doubted he could walk, so leaving him by himself felt a lot like leaving a small child alone. Vesemir could gather food and firewood before he left, or even drug Jaskier to keep him asleep, but there was no way to know how long he’d be gone, and Jaskier’s body was so weak. Even with precautions, it was hard to tell what might go wrong. 

On the other hand, Geralt was out there somewhere. His son, out alone in the cold, and from the way Jaskier told it, very sick. Arachasae venom was nothing to be taken lightly, and Jaskier had sounded sure about Geralt being too weak to make it up to the keep alone. 

How could he stand to stay here knowing Geralt might be out there dying? How could he live with himself if he let Jaskier die trying to save Geralt? 

He wished Lambert and Eskel were here with him. Not only would they be able to divide up the tasks to better take care of both Jaskier and Geralt, but he also didn’t like thinking of them out in the storm. Even if they were in perfect health, this weather was troubling. He took comfort in the thought that they might be travelling together as they had done in years past. Now if they could just get here. 

He looked down to where Jaskier was sleeping on the flood, glad to see the color returning to his cheeks. Again, these were good signs, but he was still so weak. Vesemir doubted he could condone leaving Jaskier alone in both the mental and physical state he was in now. 

He stood up and started to pace. 

He’d been faced with plenty of seemingly unsolvable problems in the past, but none so personal as this one. 

At least an hour passed while he pondered, going back and forth between two terrible options. There was no way to choose. He needed more information. 

Finally he decided the only thing he could do was wait. He’d give it a few hours. Either Eskel or Lambert would arrive, or Jaskier would wake and he could get more information about Geralt’s situation and Jaskier’s health. The weight of this decision was too much for him to carry on his own. No matter how old he became or how much he accomplished, Vesemir didn’t think he would ever be able to decide who of his loved ones deserved to live or die. That was something nobody should have to do. 

***

Everything seemed to be telling Geralt to stop. 

Estrilda and Triss were the first. At the time they had seemed like nothing more than a healer not willing to risk throwing away her hard work, and a concerned friend, but now they felt more like an omen. 

The next thing telling him to turn around and go back to Vengerberg was his own body. But this was nothing new. Ever since leaving Melitele’s Temple the only signs he got from his body were telling him to lay down and sleep. The pain was all too familiar, but the farther he went the greater the temptation was to give up. 

The final sign was the snow. After his brush with death in the rainstorm when he’d been saved by Estrilda, it felt almost comical that the weather would again be his undoing. In all his years traveling up to Kaer Morhen though, he’d seen snow like this only a time or two, and never when he was traveling alone. 

Except he wasn’t alone. He had Roach. Surely he’d be dead by now if not for her. 

Every time he got out of the saddle he felt death inch ever closer. She was his tether to the world of the living. Because of this he was understandably reluctant to dismount, but it couldn’t be avoided completely. He did his best to limit it as much as possible, but each time he had to, he found it more and more difficult to get back up into the saddle. Roach noticed this, and began kneeling to help shorten the distance he had to travel, but even this could only delay the inevitable for so long. 

His limbs no longer wanted to cooperate. Whether it was the cold, or the venom, or a mixture of the two he didn’t know, but the reason didn’t matter; all that mattered was getting to Kaer Morhen. As counterintuitive as it seemed though, the closer he got to his destination, the more he felt like it would never arrive. 

Funnily enough, the sun was out when the inevitable finally happened. It was the first break from the menacing clouds and heavy snow he’d had in days. 

The snow had decreased to a flurry, and it was by far the nicest weather he’d seen since beginning the trek through the mountains. The weather was almost pleasant. 

He dismounted Roach to help navigate through a particularly rocky and icy patch of the trail. He may have been able to manage it from in the saddle, but an injury for Roach right now would mean certain death for both of them. And maybe it was the weather, or the fact that he really was getting closer to Kaer Morhen, but he felt a sense of optimism which he hadn’t experienced in all of these weeks since leaving Jaskier. 

The rocky patch lasted longer than he thought it would, but both he and Roach made it through okay. It wasn’t until he went to get back in the saddle that he realized something was wrong. His limbs weren’t responding at all. The slow paralyzing sensation he’d been experiencing due to the venom mixed with the exertion it took to walk on his own and left him unable to raise his leg high enough to get him atop Roach, even with her kneeling. 

He began to panic. His natural instinct was to sit down, but he feared if he did so, he’d never get up again. What if hypothermia set in before it had the chance to get better? What if it only got worse? 

Destiny saved him from making the decision. His legs went limp underneath him less than a minute later and he crumpled into a heap in the snow. Roach nosed at him, concerned. 

“I’m alright,” he assured her. “I’ll be up in a minute.” 

Even as he said it, he knew this wasn’t true. He let her huddle next to him though. Maybe between her warmth and the sunlight, they could hold the hypothermia at bay. 

He knew this was only a temporary solution though. 

He only wished Roach wasn’t damned to his same sad fate. She deserved better than to die like this.


	42. Chapter 42

Vesemir’s head turned with every creak or shift from the old walls of the keep, thinking that finally he was going to be joined by Eskel or Lambert, or by some miracle, Geralt, but each time he was disappointed. Still, every sound, every thought, made him reconsider his decision to wait, but as soon as he made up his mind to wake Jaskier and get on with things he would look down at the sleeping bard and his resolve would break. He looked so weak, laying there in front of the fire, the light of the flames casting shadows on his face, exaggerating the hollows of his cheeks and the deep circles underneath his eyes. 

He could wait a little bit longer.

***

With each passing hour more and more snow fell. Geralt began to worry less about dying of hypothermia, and more about getting buried alive. The sun persisted for a while, but as the day drew to a close he knew the temperature was going to drop. He knew what was coming, but no matter how many times Geralt approached death, it never lost its sting. Especially now with Roach beside him, he found himself filled with the same deep sadness which had permeated his mind the night before Estrilda found him. 

But he wasn’t at an inn this time. No, he’d be much harder to find here. 

He did his best to push himself closer to Roach, trying to absorb more of her warmth, to cling to the only living thing near him. It helped, but he knew that when the temperature dropped not even the body heat of his most loyal companion would be enough to keep him alive. 

There was a potion in his bag. He thought he could reach it. The potion would slow his heart rate and conserve his life force. It was a last resort. Unless someone came to rescue him, drinking it would effectively end his life. 

It was so counterintuitive. Throughout all of the pain and suffering Geralt had endured in his life, he’d never once considered ending it himself. It went against his most basic instincts. 

He knew what was coming though. He was familiar, at least in an academic sense, with the effects of hypothermia. The frostbite, which would sting his extremities, the burning pain, and hallucinations. None of these things were very appealing, but he was so tired. 

He reached for his bag, making sure to stop and pet Roach on the nose and tell her he loved her before pulling the stopper off of the potion bottle. It was difficult because his hands didn’t want to cooperate, but after a moment of struggling he managed to open it. 

Geralt thought twice before bringing up the bottle to his lips. He didn’t want to die. But this was better than the alternative. 

He was ready to rest. 

***

After six hours, Vesemir could no longer contain his anxiety. As much as he wanted to let Jaskier rest, he couldn’t stand to wait around any longer—not when all three of his sons were still out there in the cold. 

He gently shook the bard awake. 

It took Jaskier several minutes to become lucid, and fully awake, but once he was he didn’t seem to hold any ill will towards Vesemir for interrupting his sleep. 

“How are you feeling?” Vesemir asked. “Do you think you’re up to having something to eat?” 

He’d feel much more comfortable leaving Jaskier here if he knew he could eat and drink. 

“I think so,” Jaskier said, his voice still quite shaky. 

Vesemir gave him a sympathetic smile. 

“I’ll find us some food thent.” 

It took nearly half an hour to scrounge up a decent, hot meal and a pot of tea, but he was encouraged to see Jaskier still awake when he returned. 

Vesemir helped him to sit up, pushing the mattress up against the wall so he could prop himself up against it, hoping the hot tea would make up for the increased distance from the fire. 

He was further encouraged to see Jaskier able to lift the cup to his mouth on his own. He was shivering, but Vesemir told himself this was a good sign. It meant his body had regained enough energy to try and generate its own heat. He would make sure and move him back in front of the fire, though, as soon as they finished their meal. 

“I woke you because we have a couple of decisions to make,” Vesemir said, once he was satisfied with the amount of food Jaskier had eaten. 

Jaskier didn’t say anything, but the look he gave Vesemir let him know he was aware enough to have this conversation. 

“I’ve given a lot of thought to what you told me before you went to sleep,” he began. “You say Geralt is out there?” He prayed Jaskier would take back what he’d said before, that there was some way Geralt hadn’t attempted the trip up to Kaer Morhen. 

His heart sank as Jaskier nodded his head. 

“I haven’t spoken to him,” Jaskier prefaced his statement, “but I heard him speaking with Triss Merigold, and I spoke with Triss Merigold as well. He told her his plan was to make the trip up to Kaer Morhen on his own, even though he was in a bad way by the time he got to Vengerberg.” 

“Because of the Arachasae Venom?” Vesemir asked. 

“And the pneumonia.” 

Vesemir knew how hardy Witchers were, and how near impenetrable their immune systems were. The mere fact that he was weak enough to catch pneumonia at all was a terrible sign. 

“Triss said she could fix the pneumonia, and she offered to let him spend the winter with her in Temeria, but he was insistent about going into the mountains.” 

“Did he at least take her up on the offer of healing?” Vesemir asked. 

“Yes.” 

Well at least he made one good decision. Vesemir was shocked at Geralt’s skewed priorities. He hadn’t trained Geralt to have such little self preservation. 

It was then that Jaskier spoke up again. 

“So what decision did you want to discuss?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll get to some real plot soon. I promise. Just stick with me a little bit longer.


	43. Author’s Note

Hey y’all . I think I’m going to take a break from writing for a week or two. I’m not really sure at the moment for how long, I just know that i need to take a step back.   
I don’t think I’m putting up chapters for the right reason any more and it’s reflecting in the quality of my work. I’ve felt like this for awhile now. I want to give you guys quality content and I just don’t think I’m doing that at the moment.   
I’ve loved writing this story, and I am so grateful for all of you who read and comment, truly it means so much to me. But I just don’t feel good about the quality of my work lately, and you all deserve better.  
I’ll be back in a bit, but for now I think I just need to stop for a moment and collect my thoughts and make sure that these stories are of the quality you all deserve going forward.


End file.
